The Benghazi Affair: A Hillary Clinton Parody
by captainward
Summary: Unbeknownst to the American people, Hillary Clinton leads a secret life as a secret agent! In the Benghazi Affair, Hillary must make her hardest choices yet as she embarks on a mission to investigate the mysterious circumstances surrounding the incident in Benghazi, Libya . . . (Featuring Hillary Clinton, Huma Abedin, Barack Obama, and Bill Clinton)
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

 _EL MOKATTAM_ _  
_ _CAIRO, EGYPT_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 19, 2012_

Huma Abedin walked down Street 10 in the El Mokattam neighborhood of Cairo, chafing under her Christian Siriano designed burqa. The fierce designer had made swooping enhancements to the traditional burqa, made of the finest Egyptian cotton, but she couldn't care less at the moment. Covering her whole body from head to toe, the burqa made the already sweltering Egyptian day even worse even as she tried her best to remain unfazed inside its claustrophobic confines. Oh God, she thought, she didn't know how the more traditional local women could bare to do this day in and day out. This particular style of clothing was definitely not designed for the comfort of women, and her heart reached out to her fellow Muslim women who had to endure this.

She had to keep focused however, no matter how uncomfortable she felt. President Obama authorized the mission himself after the terrorist attack on the US consulate in Benghazi . . .

The Muslim Brotherhood headquarters loomed up ahead. Poking up into the skies, its height, while not as tall as the buildings in downtown Cairo, reached above its neighboring apartment buildings. Boxy and beige, the traditional Islamic motifs of arches and calligraphic art adorned the headquarters building. Its symbol, two crossed scimitars converging under the Quran, was prominently stamped on one side of the building while a walled gate separated itself from the welcoming suburban street. The mesh screening of her burqa made it more difficult to see the building, though she couldn't help but notice Christian Siriano's fine lacework. Sometimes, she thought, he really should pay attention to more functional concerns.

Huma sighed but continued to head down to her target destination. Unlike Islamic Cairo with its warren of alleyways and cramped buildings or the traffic and congestion of downtown Cairo, El Mokattam's spacious streets allowed for the luxury Mercedes and Audis to pass by relatively unharassed by pedestrians. According to the dossier, Al Mokattam, another spelling of the neighborhood, rested atop the Mokattam hills with particular breathtaking views of chaotic Cairo, the domes and minarets of mosques and the collection of high rise apartment buildings being the most prominent sight.

The headquarters gate had already been opened by the time she reached the Muslim Brotherhood building, and deftly, she turned into the building and entered the grounds, at which time, the gate quickly screeched closed behind her. They were expecting her as she well knew. The Muslim Brotherhood thought her a double agent, a clear coup or so they believed, as she worked for her boss, the Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton. The files she held inside the folds of her burqa, she hoped, should seal the deal and finally be able to gain their trust. In actuality, the files were cooked CIA intelligence, but they didn't know that.

The revolutionary Muslim Brotherhood government had recently risen to power on the tail wind of the Arab Spring when the Egyptian people deposed their previous ruler, Hosni Mubarak. State had been caught unaware by the events in Tahrir Square, but though happy for the Egyptian people, they certainly were concerned when they elected the Muslim Brotherhood. Already, they'd been hearing reports of disconcerting news out of Cairo as the revolutionary government by the day continued to tighten their hold on power.

Elegantly, she passed through the lobby of the headquarters building. Though it remained mostly cramped like the bureaucratic buildings of downtown Cairo, the marble flooring and the reception desk made of Egyptian sycamore as well as the intricate decorations of Islamic calligraphy on the walls suggested the growing influence and wealth of the Brotherhood. She knew the way and going past the lobby towards the back rooms and climbing the stairwell, even with the robes of her burqa proving a hindrance, she found the office on the fourth floor.

Inside, a pudgy middle aged man sat behind a desk of Egyptian palm wood. "We've been waiting for you, my dear Huma," he said as she entered the office. His name was Ibrahim Alahim, and the windows behind him revealed the sweltering sweep of Cairo itself complete with the brown hazy smog that daily lingered over the city. A couple of nondescript chairs, a bookcase as well as a single wilting plant that somehow survived the Egyptian heat completed the musty aired surroundings.

Three keffiyehed guards guarded their leader, and Huma would have thought none of it except she noticed one of the men. Behind his keffiyeh scarf covering his mouth, the man had piercing blue eyes. Could be Lebanese or perhaps, a convert to radical Islam, she thought, disconcerting her that someone could reject the West like that. "As Salaam," she finally said, saying the traditional Egyptian greeting. She lowered her eyes submissively. "I've brought a gift for the ummah," she continued, reaching into her burqa and revealing a file folder filled with paper work.

A keffiyehed guard quickly snatched it from her hand and gave it to his master, who took it from his underling.

"CIA dossiers of our hated enemy, the army generals," she added as Ibrahim thumbed through the contents of the file. Though the leadership of the old military government had been deposed, the Egyptian armed forces still gave their loyalty to the remaining military leaders. "Their addresses, habits, and routines, just like I promised," she continued. "I hope this information would prove useful to our Brotherhood for any operations we might deem necessary in the future."

Ibrahim smiled contentedly as he perused the files and then placed it on his desk. "Excellent, excellent," he said.

Oddly enough, Huma thought he'd be more excited at the cooked documents she'd obtained for him. It seemed his guards were more interested in the documents, trying to sneak a peek at the papers hidden inside the folder. Ibrahim, on the other hand, never gave it a second look.

"You have done well," he continued, giving her a sly smile. "This information would be of use . . ." Then his smile vanished, replaced by a look of disdain. "Had we not known of your _treachery!"_

Before she could react, Huma felt something metallic against her side. It was a gun, and the keffiyehed guard grabbed her arm, making sure she did not escape.

She gasped inwardly at the sudden turn of events. She didn't know how her cover had been blown and—

The keffiyehed guard forced her to sit down on one of the chairs as her mind reeled.

"I have to admit," Ibrahim intoned as he got up from his chair and made his way towards her. "You almost had us fooled, but fortunately," Standing before her, his eyes glanced towards the blue eyed keffiyehed guard close to the palm wood desk. "We had been forewarned."

Huma didn't say anything even though her heart pounded. She tried to remember her DSS training in events like this. Stick to your cover, she told herself. Stick to your cover. The burqa, it turned out, was more helpful as it veiled her feelings, though she had to watch out for her eyes, which could still betray her. She looked straight at Ibrahim careful not to reveal any of her feelings.

He sat back against the desk. "No need for your American protestations," the pudgy Ibrahim said with a wave of his hand. "We know everything about you. You are Huma Abedin, agent of the DSS. You pose as a lowly aide to that witch, _Hillary Clinton,"_ he said with a disgusted tone. "But you are so much more." He peered down as if inspecting her, and then, snatched off the veil of her burqa.

Light flooded into her, and she looked away from it, she didn't realize how confining that burqa was. He grabbed her by the chin and made her look up at him, his eyes gazed the length of her, admiring her beauty. She knew what that meant for religious men like Ibrahim when a woman's veil was uncovered . . .

"We have ways to make you talk," he continued, stroking her chin. His other guards joined in his lurid gaze except for the blue eyed guard who looked on intensely. "It does not, however, have to be painful, it may actually be pleasurable . . ."

She tried not to gulp or make any other type of movement that would betray her feelings, but try as she might, her throat bobbed slightly at the thought of her possible fate.

Four against one, she thought. Her mind inspected the adversaries in the room. Ibrahim in front of her, and two on her two sides, and the blue eyed one by the desk—

The blue-eyed guard nodded his head at her. She wasn't quite sure what he was doing, but he nodded his head again as if he was trying to tell her something or trying to get her attention. Then, he lowered his keffiyeh scarf and mouthed the word:

 _Duck_

She didn't have to be told twice. She dove for the floor even as the blue-eyed keffiyehed guard pulled out a silencer. He first shot Ibrahim in the back of the head, who fell forward to the floor quickly, and then he turned his gun to the two guards. The silencer fired and brought the rest of the guards down. Their bodies thudded to the floor, his bullets all silencing them with death.

Huma didn't realize at first what had happened. Where before she was in danger, now she looked around at the dead all around her. Ibrahim looked at her on the floor, his glassy eyes staring back devoid of all life. She immediately picked herself up, not knowing if she was the next target.

The blue-eyed guard didn't attack her, however. The silencer in his hand, he stepped over the corpses and proceeded towards the doorway. Reaching it, he opened the door slightly and peered out at the hallway outside and then looked back, his blue eyes glistening at her. "Come on," he said.

Huma looked at him, still not quite believing what had happened. "Who are you?"

Giving one last look out to the narrow hallway, he turned back to her. Quietly, he removed his keffiyeh scarf and showed her his face. He was handsome, square-jawed with shortly cropped hair. If she didn't know any better, he resembled a certain politician . . .

"Dee Romney, CIA" he said intensely. "What's your mission here?"

Romney? she thought, doing a mental double take. She reached back into her mind, thinking that perhaps there had been some mistake. "As in Mitt Romney, Romney?" she asked. As far as she knew, Mitt only had five sons each of whom were busy trying to make their dad president in the upcoming presidential election and none of whom served in any security capacity.

Dee slouched his shoulders and looked away from her momentarily, clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. At last, he nodded. "My dad, he—" Pain crossed his handsome face. "He doesn't like talking about me." He looked back at her with a new determination. "What's your mission here?" he repeated.

She knew not to pry and decided to go along with the business at hand. After all, she had a mission to do. "I'm Huma—"

"I know who you are," he interrupted. "You're with the DSS." It stood for the Diplomatic Security Service. As far as the American public knew, the organization tasked its members to protect America's diplomats in embassies and consulates around the world, premier among them the Secretary of State. In actuality, the DSS had long been the secret spy wing of the State Department, complementing the other spy agencies, the CIA and NSA. "Why are you here?"

"I've been instructed to upload a virus onto the Muslim Brotherhood computers and—" She stopped herself. She was about to say the virus was meant to find out information about the attack on the US consulate in Benghazi, Libya, only a few days before, but she thought against it. "That's it," she said.

Dee viewed her warily and then nodded at her. "I know the way to the server room," he said, putting away the silencer. Then, he bent down and picked up a gun dropped by one of the dead guards. "Follow me," he said, tossing the weapon, a Russian-made Makarov pistol, to her.

Huma caught it and then nodded back. Hiding the Makarov beneath the folds of her burqa, she followed him out to the hallway but not before grabbing her veil once more and fashioning a makeshift hijab head scarf over her head as she headed out. He closed the door into the office, the dead bodies still laying where they were felled.

They moved through the corridor, shadows darkening the cramped hallway and decorative terrazzo flooring. "What's your mission?" Huma asked softly as they headed down the hallway.

"My mission?" Dee said back. "It's um, it's to infiltrate the Muslim Brotherhood." He glanced down for a moment. "Just like you," he added.

As if saved from the uncomfortable questions, they came upon the stairwell and Dee hurried to climb it. Huma followed after him. A couple of bearded men in thobe robes passed by on the steps, and she hid behind her makeshift headscarf, careful not to draw attention to herself.

She caught up to him at the top of the stairs, and then they turned towards another room on the fifth floor. It was a larger room, cooler than the rest of the building, lined with row after row of server racks where inside, server computers were stacked on top of one another. The servers whirred loudly with lights blinking off and on while the cables in the back of each server hung loosely in haphazard fashion. Already inside the server room, two men in loose fitting aba robes inspected the servers, but that didn't last long. Dee entered with his silencer and shot them, both dropping to the floor dead.

Unremorseful, Dee entered and hurried into the server room. Huma wasn't shocked either. She'd seen violence before, many times during her many years in the DSS ever since Hillary asked her to join during her Senate days. Quickly, she hurried to one of the computer workstations, ripping her hijab head scarf as she did so, and set to work. Pulling out a flash drive from the folds of her burqa, she slid out the USB plug and stuck it into the workstation. All she needed to do was upload the virus and then those in Washington would have access to the Brotherhood database.

"Have you met him?" Dee asked as he held his silencer up. The door had been closed, but he still stood ready with his silencer in case someone barged in.

"Met who?" Huma replied. She had already accessed some of the files in the computer, trying to find information on Benghazi. So far, she'd only found files on mundane memos and backbiting emails.

"My father," he said. "Would you serve him, if—if he won?"

"Um yes, of course," she said "I serve whoever's president," she continued, trying to remain focused on the computer screen. "I've only met him a few times in Washington gatherings, haven't really talked to him." She found it odd Dee was asking these questions about his father. She'd always thought Mitt, even if she disagreed with him politically, was a good father to his five—six, she corrected herself, sons.

But something caught her attention. She scrolled the mouse on a file named "The Sands of Allah." Double-clicking on it, the file opened, and she breathed inward as she looked over the contents of the file. The Benghazi attack, it—

She couldn't finish the rest of the file. A blunt force hit her on the back of the head, and she blacked out. Dee caught her prone body with one arm even as he held up the silencer in his hand, the same silencer he used to knock her out.

"I'm sorry, Huma, can't let you see that," he said as he held her, his icy cold eyes staring onto the computer screen . . .

•••

 _THE WHITE HOUSE_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 19, 2012_

One hand pressed on her earpiece, Hillary Rodham Clinton, in a blue pantsuit by Oscar de la Renta, stood transfixed outside the White House secretary's office that led to the Oval Office. On the walls hung White House photographer's Pete Souza's outsized photographs depicting the happy and inspirational moments of the Obama Presidency, but she was feeling none of that at the moment.

Silence now came from her earpiece when just a few moments before, she had heard everything her deputy chief of staff was doing. "Huma?" she asked nervously as if by saying the words would bring her back. "Huma? Huma?"


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

"Madame Secretary," Anita Decker Breckenridge, the President's secretary, said. The blonde secretary had opened the door of the Outer Office and looked out into the hallway with a smile. "The President will see you now."

Hillary turned towards the young woman, though she was still disoriented from what just occurred half a world away in Cairo. "Yes, of course," she said. Barack had ordered this meeting a day ago and Cheryl, her Chief of Staff, notified her to head over to the White House today. She didn't know what it was about, only that Cheryl said the President considered this matter urgent. Normally, this would be the most important matter she had to do today, but all she could think about was Huma.

She entered the Outer Office, a tiny room relatively speaking, in a fifty-five thousand square foot building just outside the Oval Office. Two mahogany desks took up most of the room and on the desks rested keyboards and computer LCD monitors, which contained the President's meetings and itinerary for the day. Anita, now seated at her desk, smiled at her as she crossed the length of the room. She gave her a wan smile back, though she didn't know how sincere it looked. Anita didn't know about Huma.

Finally, Hillary went into the Oval Office. It had been a normal sight now to her, first when she lived as First Lady with Bill and now as Secretary of State to Barack. Though much had remained the same, the view of the Rose Garden, the monumental architecture, slight changes had been made since then. The furniture, couches and chairs around a coffee table that sat across from the Resolute desk, had been updated. The flooring changed from her husband's blue rug to Barack's cream one, but the Presidential Seal, an American bald eagle clutching an olive branch in one talon and thirteen arrows in another, as always, lay prominent at its center.

President Obama, in a tight-fitting navy blue suit, sat behind the Resolute desk, so named as it was made from sturdy English Oak from the timbers of the HMS _Resolute._ The handsome African American president, sitting back from the desk on his leather executive chair, did not look pleased. Two flags, one of the United States and the other of the Presidential Seal, flanked him.

Hillary gravely crossed into the Oval Office and stood before her President. She didn't know what to say, though she knew she had to say something. "Huma," she said quietly.

"I heard," President Obama said. He raised his chin up at her, the way he does when he's nervous. "Hillary, I sent for you today—"

"Aren't you worried?" Hillary sputtered out. "She's been captured by the—"

"Hillary," Obama interrupted. "This concerns Huma," he continued patiently. It always amazed her how Barack would always keep his calm in grave matters such as this. It was something she came to admire from the young president, who beat her for the Democratic nomination. "There's something I hadn't told you about Huma's mission to Cairo."

Her head shot up upon hearing the news. "What?"

Carefully, he opened the drawer from his desk and pulled out a tablet computer. "It relates to what happened in Benghazi," he said, placing the tablet on the desk towards her. The tablet, a Samsung Galaxy Tab®, its Wi-Fi disabled for security purposes, held an image of a globe with a blinking icon over Benghazi, Libya in the tumultuous Maghreb of North Africa. She knew the intelligence community had been trying to build a propriety single mobile device or SMB tablets and smartphones, for the President's use, but for now, this would have to do.

Hillary picked up the Samsung Galaxy Tab®, and she noted how comfortable it felt in her hand as well as its ease of use.

Obama got his own Samsung Galaxy Tab® from the drawer of the presidential desk and swiped on the touch screen. "I know you're well aware of the events in Benghazi," he said, pressing on his own tablet touch screen.

On her touch screen, the globe zoomed onto the city of Benghazi to reveal a burning compound in the dark of night. Indeed, it had been a week ago since that incident where the Ambassador and three other Americans had been killed. Even now, it'd been hard to piece together what had happened, and the Republicans in Congress spent no time in attacking her and Barack on this issue. The cover story about the anti-Muslim video on YouTube inciting violence was not enough for them. On the touch screen, the flickering flames over the compound continued to lick the air.

"What I didn't tell you was the real reason behind the terrorist attack," Obama explained. He pressed down on his touch screen again, and on her screen, the image shifted from the burning compound of the US consulate in Benghazi to a tundra field where an array of antennas stood side by side covering a large area. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance.

"HAARP," Obama said. "Our High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program in Alaska. You can't see it but—" He swiped once more on his touch screen. It caused her screen to turn to a graphic where the antenna arrays produced sound waves up into the atmosphere. The sound waves seemed to be pushing against the stratosphere and then, bulging the ionosphere outward into space.

"Our military has been working on a weather control system."

"Weather control?" Hillary said, slightly shocked at what she'd been told. It was the first time she'd heard of this military program. She still wondered how this related to Huma, but she couldn't help herself from being curious as to what she'd been told.

"Yes, Hillary, weather control," Obama answered. "The Chinese had been working on their own version with some success during the 2008 Beijing Olympics." He closed the cover on his tablet, but her screen remained the same with the same sound waves pressing up on the earth's atmosphere. She made a mental note to read more about this technology in the classified archives when she returned to the State Department. "But ours is more advanced," Obama said. "Our scientists in Alaska have developed a miniature version of HAARP. A week ago, one of our agents stole it. We tracked it to Benghazi, and we were about to retrieve it but . . ." Obama clenched his teeth slightly. "Somehow the terrorists knew."

She let the information seep into her. Weather manipulation? she asked herself. She didn't realize how far advanced their military technology had become, but then again, she shouldn't be surprised. A weapon like that with its enormous power could tilt the battlefield in anyone's favor.

A darker thought entered her mind as well. And with a weapon like that, they could attack America's enemies leaving no trace of their involvement. The scenario played out in her mind, but the implications didn't bother her as much now compared to her youth. She had after all, become a foreign policy hawk in her years in Washington placing her to the right on security issues of many of her Democratic colleagues.

Already, Joe's skeptical words sounded in her head, and she laughed mirthfully a little bit inside. Joe Biden had always been more dovish than her.

"Huma was sent to Cairo to find out more about the theft of our device and its possible whereabouts," Obama finished.

She was suddenly reminded of Huma and what just happened. "We have to—I have to get her," she said to Barack. "She's in danger."

Obama pressed his lips together and shook his head. "You're not going, Hillary."

The news hit her hard, and for a moment, she thought she didn't hear right. "I have to go," she said finally. "I'm the best agent you got."

"I know that," Obama replied, still with the same amount of coolness. "I've already ordered the CIA to send a team to Cairo."

Hillary tried again to get through to Barack. "This is Huma we're talking—"

"And I have complete faith in the CIA to complete this mission," Obama finished. He leaned forwards towards his desk and looked into her eyes. "Hillary, I've noticed your performance lately. You've been tired, overworked, and . . . careless. I need you to take a break especially on a matter as sensitive as Huma." His eyes probed her trying to find a connection. "This is a marathon not a sprint."

"Barack," she urged. She couldn't believe what she was being told. While she had confidence in the CIA, it didn't feel right that they were out there in the field and not her.

"No, Hillary," he said, leaning back on his leather executive chair once more. "My decision is final."

She looked away, careful not to show emotion. A woman in Washington had to be extra careful with emotions as she well knew. "Am I excused?"

Obama nodded, though he gulped slightly, no doubt feeling a pang of empathy for his unlikely friend. Hillary left the Oval Office, the sun casting a shadow over the President seated on his desk.

•••

 _EMBASSY ROW_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 19, 2012_

Tucked in the northeastern corner of the nation's capital was the Embassy Row neighborhood of Washington, DC. So named for the many embassies that call the neighborhood home, it was once the province of the well-to-do of DC's Victorian and Gilded Age set populating the neighborhood with mansions, townhouses, and other imposing homes that was a far cry from the modern apartment buildings and the midrise office buildings of downtown. Its seclusion and access to DC's center made it ideal for the ambassadors and diplomats who daily went about the needs of their home governments.

In one corner of this neighborhood, across from the Danish Embassy, there stood a brick colonial house . . .

The door opened into Whitehaven and Hillary set foot into the entranceway of her second home. Purse in hand, she trudged into the living room, the issue of Huma not far from her mind.

A beige couch was situated at the back half of the living room along with padded chairs, end tables, with tasteful looking lamps atop it, and a glass coffee table. A large flat panel television inside a TV cabinet sat across from the furniture, while family photographs, some going all the way back to her years in Arkansas, hung on the walls. Hillary dropped the purse on the floor, and sat down on the couch, thinking and thinking about Huma.

It should have been her, she thought. She should have been the one sent on that mission not Huma. Not for the first time did she feel guilt for enrolling her into the DSS in the first place. If there was anything the years as a DSS agent taught her is that this line of work was dangerous. The issue should have been studied more, searched all its angles and pitfalls, but she did none of that.

Huma had found out about her clandestine work for the State Department by accident. Being the diligent aide that Huma was, she located files concerning a mission during Operation Iraqi Freedom that she had carelessly stuffed in some boxes of her Senate office not unlike the missing Rose Law Firm billing records during her White House and Whitewater years.

Huma had begged, even pleaded to join, but she, at first, refused to let her into the DSS.

"It's too dangerous," she had said quietly in her Senate office.

"I can do it," Huma pleaded. "You said yourself women and girls should never set limits for themselves . . ."

Now look at what that decision had cost, she thought. Huma was out there possibly tortured and possibly . . .

Hillary breathed in, trying not to think about what may be happening. She herself had been recruited into the DSS by her mentor, the Secretary of State under her husband, Madeleine Albright.

Madeleine had found her one day crying in the East Wing of the White House. It was only a few days after Bill told her about Monica, about his affair.

"Let me show you something," Madeleine Albright said to her in the Garden Room, a pin of an opened eye emblazoned on the blouse of her skirtsuit. She had held out her hand towards the younger Hillary.

Her younger self looked up at Madeleine. Tears stained the sleeves of her pink skirtsuit jacket.

"It's alright," Albright continued. "Everything will be alright . . ."

"Hey, Hillary," a voice said, a voice with a distinctive Southern twang.

Hillary looked up and her heart lifted immediately when she saw Bill peeking from the hallway into the living room. He wore a nicely pressed suit, and though the years brought lines to his face, he was still as handsome as the day they met.

"I didn't know you were home," she said finally.

"I was in town," he said as he made his way into the living room. Usually, Bill spent his time in Chappaqua close to the Clinton Foundation in Harlem while she stayed in Whitehaven because of her work at State and the DSS. "I wish I was always home," he said, sitting down beside her and giving her an affectionate pat on her leg.

Hillary couldn't help but smile when she was around him. "Oh, Bill," she said, but her momentary joy was short-lived. She was reminded of Huma again, and she frowned.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking deeply into her with his big puppy dog eyes.

She couldn't look at him. In her line of work, she couldn't tell him everything, the hardest time being when she couldn't tell him about the whereabouts of Osama bin Laden, and it pained her every time.

Bill bit his lower lip. "Well, if you don't want to tell me, that's alright," he said. He gave her a momentary glance. "But if you do want to tell me, that's alright too."

One look and she knew she would tell him. She'd been wanting to get this matter off her chest. "Huma," she said. "She's been captured."

Upon hearing the news, Bill narrowed his eyes, and then he nodded. "If you need me, I'll go," he offered. Hillary remembered the last time, he said those words to bring back journalists Euna Lee and Laura Ling from the clutches of the North Korean dictator, Kim Jong Il.

"Barack already sent a team. They're en route to Cairo now," she said.

Bill nodded in affirmation. "Obama's a smart man," he said. Hillary cast a sidelong glance at him, he wasn't as good of friends with Barack as she was, though the two Presidents always treated each other with respect. "But more importantly, he's a good man."

"He could have sent me," Hillary said, slightly hurt that he took Barack's side. "He's been choosing other people for missions more and more lately."

"When you're President—"

Hillary shot him a look, he said the "P" word. I'm talking about my presidency," he said with a mischievous smile. "When you're President, you have to make choices, choices that not everyone will like."

He rubbed her back, trying to soothe her. "I trust him, I trust his judgment. After all," he bent over and flicked her up by the chin. "He chose you for Secretary of State and the Gaddafi mission, didn't he?"

She smiled at that, even as he playfully hit the couch and stood up. "How'd you like some supper?" he asked. "I got some Chinese from Meiwah."

Meiwah was Bill's favorite Chinese place in DC, and although their Chinese food was indeed delicious, she didn't feel at all hungry, not after what happened today. "I'm fine," she said to him.

A slight frown crossed Bill's distinguished face, but he nodded anyways. "Well, it's on the table if you're ever hungry," Bill said, sounding a tad disappointed, and then, he wandered off into the kitchen.

Hillary sighed. She knew Bill was just trying to make her feel better, but it wasn't working. The thought of Huma being out there weighed down on her like the prospects of her DC bar exam.

If only Barack would let her rescue Huma, she told herself angrily. She'd always been a doer, and if she thought there was something out there that needed to be fixed, well, by golly, she'd go out there and fix it. Had she won in 2008 rather than him, she'd already—

The thought screeched to a halt in her mind. She did it again, she thought as she closed her eyes. Thinking about what could have been. It didn't work out, that's all. She tried her best, but it didn't work out.

Her BlackBerry suddenly vibrated inside her handbag. Slightly startled, she reached down, dug it out of her purse, and then, looked at the screen, which read "Chels."

She pressed on the screen and put the phone up to her ear.

Chelsea's chipper voice came loud and clear. "Oh hi, Mom!" she said excitedly. "Mark and I just got back from Pennsylvania. We went out to the country, and it's really pretty out there."

"Oh hi, Chels," she said, hoping that her moroseness wasn't coming through. Chelsea didn't know about her espionage work. Ever since she was a child, she'd always shielded her initially from the media and now from the darker aspects of what she had to do for the nation's security. She always wanted her daughter to live as normal a life as possible given the extraordinary circumstances they had thrust upon her.

"I'll be back for the Foundation soon," Chelsea continued. "What's this I hear about Benghazi?" she added worriedly.

She wanted to tell her about Huma. Chelsea had always considered Huma like family and for her not to know . . . she knew she couldn't, though. "The President has it under control," she said. It was all she could say.

"Oh ok," she said with a trace of concern. "I'll see you then." The call ended, and Hillary put the phone onto the arm of the couch, its screen darkening once more.

What she wouldn't do for Chelsea, she thought. It was for her that she risked her life to defend this country. Huma was probably doing the same for her son. Mothers and their children, there was no stronger bond . . .

Hillary stood up, the idea striking her much like the late surge in the polls for her during the 2008 New Hampshire primary. If Chelsea had been captured, there was no force on Earth that would stop her from trying to get her back. Not even Barack.

That's it, she thought, deciding then and there. She'll rescue Huma. Quickly, she picked up the phone and pressed on one of her contacts.

A voice answered on the other end.

"Cheryl," she said. "I need something done."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

 _BELT PARKWAY, BROOKLYN_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 20, 2012_

With the flags of the United States and the State Department flapping on the front sides of its hood, the Cadillac DTS sped along the Belt Parkway in Brooklyn. They headed towards JFK International, the closest airport with nonstop flights to Egypt. Seated in the backseat, Hillary looked out of the car's tinted window, watching the blur of landscaped trees that obscured the city of New York behind it as the voice of Jake Sullivan, her Director of Policy Planning at State, spoke on the satellite speakerphone beside her. She could already imagine her boyish-looking aide sitting in his State Department office with the thick policy binder colloquially referred to as "The Book."

"Cairo consists of many neighborhoods," Jake said, his voice speaking from the loudspeaker of Hillary's satellite phone. "Central Cairo is its downtown while Islamic Cairo holds the old city. If you can imagine _1001 Nights,_ that's Islamic Cairo." Around the Secretary of State, the luxury car contained leather trim seats, and on the back headrest of the driver's seat, a small viewscreen, installed on the headrest itself, remained turned off. "Funny, because there's also a section of the city called Old Cairo where—"

"I'm familiar with Cairo," Hillary said in a Jason Wu pantsuit. Normally Michelle Obama's go-to designer, she chose to use the young Asian American's design with striking lapels for this occasion. "I've been familiar with it ever since President Hosni Mubarak . . ." now former President Hosni Mubarak, Hillary reminded herself, after his downfall in the popular uprising against him at Tahrir Square, "and his wife hosted us when I was First Lady. Just give me the location of the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters inside the city."

"I really don't see the reason," Jake said, sounding flustered.

"Just do it," Hillary said, her voice raised. She knew she sometimes sounded like a scold when her anger piqued, but it couldn't be helped.

Jake sighed audibly from the satellite phone. "Alright, let me see . . ." His voice trailed off and the sound of pages furiously turning emanated from the phone. "The Book," a policy binder that Hillary knew Jake was perusing, held within it the entire repository of the State Department's knowledge of the world. Updated daily, its classified material, diplomatic cables, and analysis were all for the benefit of the Secretary of State.

As Hillary waited for Jake's report, the viewer on the back of the driver side headrest suddenly turned on. There, she saw Philippe Reines, her spokesman, and Dan Schwerin, her chief speechwriter, standing in a sterile looking office called Hillaryland Ops. The two staff members stood in the darkened room in between two rows of computer worktables. A flat panel television hung on the wall behind them, giving off an eerie glow as its screen displayed a digital map of the world with red pulsating markers on hot spots around the globe. Above it, the digital clocks displayed the time in four separate time zones: Washington, Greenwich, The Hague, and for this instance, Cairo. Named after the official State Department Ops, which manages all communications for State, only she, her staff, those with top secret clearance, and of course, the White House knew of its existence.

" _We've bought tickets to Cairo,"_ Philippe said. Even in a suit and his straightforward message, he had a mischievous quality about him.

" _Egyptian Airlines,"_ Dan Schwerin added, also wearing a Brooks Brothers suit that was almost a uniform among the DC set. " _We tried to buy American like you wanted, but, um, this was the only nonstop flight we could find."_ On the side walls, video monitors played muted news coverage or footage of flashpoints around the world: Syria, Burma, North Korea, Afghanistan . . .

It had to do, Hillary thought, and then, she nodded at the viewscreen where inside the tiny screen, Philippe and Dan stood staring back at her. At least it was one less headache to worry about.

" _Why Cairo again?"_ Philippe asked. " _To, um, notify the press of course,"_ he continued slyly.

She tried not to smile. Philippe always had a knack of finding trouble or sometimes even causing the trouble himself. "Cheryl will explain," she said to the two of them, though Philippe clearly tried to hide his momentary disappointment.

"Here it is, Muslim Brotherhood HQ," Jake interrupted from the satellite phone placed beside her. "It's apparently in the El Mokattam neighborhood of Cairo. A suburban neighborhood named after the Mokattam hills that overlooks the entire city . . ." His voice trailed off as if he was deciding whether it was wise to ask the question. "What's going on, exactly?"

Even as the Cadillac sped under a highway sign that read "Welcome to Queens" suspended on the overhead gantry, Hillary opened her mouth, about to tell Jake what she told both Philippe and Dan. Instead—

 _Bzzzt Bzzzzt Bzzzt Bzzzt_

Her BlackBerry vibrated inside her handbag. It vibrated again, and she quickly reached over and got it out. On the LCD screen, the incoming call simply said "Cheryl." She pressed the speakerphone key and awaited her call.

"Everything's ready," the husky voice of Cheryl Mills said from the phone. African American and graduate of Stanford law, Cheryl, her Chief of Staff, always knew how to get things done. The "journalists" at the online news website _Politico_ called Cheryl her consigliere, no doubt gleeful at the Mafia connotation, but Cheryl really was a great aide and . . . friend. She and her husband, David Domenici, were on her and Bill's Christmas card list.

"Maggie's with me too," Cheryl added, referring to Maggie Williams, one of her best friends and counselors all the way back to the Clinton White House. "I asked for help and—" she paused for a moment with a steely determination. "We've taken care of everything."

The satellite phone sounded again. "Can someone tell me what's going on?" Jake piped up. "The East Timor delegation is going to visit State soon." he said, panicked. "East Timor!"

" _Yeah,"_ Philippe chided from the viewscreen on the back of the driver side headrest. " _Tell us what's going on—I mean, please?"_

Hillary looked out the window. She was now on the Van Wyck Expressway headed straight for JFK International. During her Senate run, she had memorized the road system of the city. New York was her home state after all.

From the viewscreen, Dan Schwerin looked inquiringly at her, also curious to know what was going on.

Hillary took a deep breath. She didn't want to tell them, but she owed them a reason for her soon-to-be absence. Her staff knew all about her secret identity as a State Department spy unlike her husband's staff who would have already spilled the beans to the nearest _New York Times_ reporter. Especially that George Stephanopoulos, now inexplicably the host of _Good Morning America._

"What I'm about to tell you is a direct violation of the President's orders," Hillary said gravely. Inside the viewscreen, both Philippe and Dan gulped while the satellite phone and her BlackBerry only had a muffled silence.

" _As long as no one finds out, right?"_ Philippe said sheepishly, trying to break the tension in the meeting with some levity.

No one laughed, least of all Hillary, and Philippe quickly closed his mouth, knowing his joke bombed.

"Huma's been captured," she said, feeling like all the air from the room vanished with that admission. "I'm going to rescue her. The President has already sent a team and expressly forbid me to mount a rescue operation."

On the viewscreen, Dan looked over at Philippe to see if he too was as shocked as him, while Jake's breathing came through from the satellite phone. Hearing her staff, she instantly regretted telling them what she was about to do. Huma's capture rattled her honed political instincts, which reverberated with the thoughts of a Republican Congressional Committee investigation.

"Huma needs me, though," she said, pressing on with her voice lowered, speaking as if almost to herself. "Huma needs all of us." She looked up at the viewscreen and then to the satellite phone and BlackBerry. She felt as if they were in the same car with her. "Ever since the nineties, my staff has been called 'Hillaryland' but it should really be called 'All of Us Land' because we're all in this together."

Dan Schwerin's eyes glanced up in a northeasterly direction as if trying to rearrange and fine tune her speech.

"I couldn't have asked for a better team," Hillary continued, her voice breaking. "Thank you all" she finished.

The black Cadillac DTS pulled up to the service road of JFK's Terminal 4. Futuristic in design, the glass-sheathed terminal seemed akin to a gigantic glass hangar on the airport grounds.

From the side window of the Cadillac, two African American women, one svelte, the other full-figured, approached the back seat door. Maggie Williams, the full-figured woman, held a duffel bag in one hand and a windbreaker in the other, while Cheryl Mills, the svelte one in a pantsuit, quickly pulled open the door with Hillary climbing out.

Before she was seen by any onlookers at the airport, Maggie shrouded her inside the windbreaker, and all three of them marched into the lobby of the terminal, which revealed an open space design with the flags of several countries hanging prominently in the air. Afraid to miss their flights, harried crowds with wheeled luggage in tow, hurried to check in.

"Welcome to JFK International Terminal 4," an articulate lady said from the intercom. "Bienvenidos a JFK Internacional Terminal de cuatro," another lady said in the intercom, repeating the greeting in Spanish.

They didn't have time to admire their surroundings. Together, Cheryl and Maggie veered Hillary from the lobby to the ladies restroom. Inside, one lady was checking her makeup in front of a mirror, but both of the African American women ignored her and instead pushed Hillary into one of the stalls with Cheryl passing by her and going to the adjoining stall.

Before Hillary could say anything, a duffel bag slid in, courtesy of Maggie who waited outside the stall.

"There's a leak here," Hillary heard Maggie say.

"Oh ok," a woman said back. "Give me a min—hey you don't have to be so pushy." With that, the door slammed, and Maggie's body thudded against the door, no doubt to block anyone from entering the restroom.

"We're good," Maggie said aloud.

The go ahead given, Cheryl, spoke up from the adjoining stall. "You'll find what you need in there," she said, and Hillary's eyes went down to the duffel bag on the bathroom floor.

She dug into the duffel bag and found some makeup, a passport with plane tickets tucked inside, and a single black wig. Without an explanation from Cheryl or Maggie, she already knew they had obtained for her a disguise and the forged documents she needed to fly to Cairo undetected. The wig and other items in her hand, Hillary set to work . . .

A moment later, Hillary emerged from the ladies room a new woman, the passing crowds as evidence that her disguise, chiefly the black wig she wore, worked, though she still wore her Jason Wu pantsuit.

"Hilaria Jones," Cheryl said, presenting her forged passport in front of her. Flipped open to a blue-tinted page, a photo of a black-haired Hillary looked back at her. "Mother of three from . . . Park Ridge, Illinois."

Hillary looked quizzically over at Cheryl, who winked back. Park Ridge, Illinois was her hometown growing up, and she distinctly remembered Pickwick Restaurant. That place had the best olive burger.

Cheryl and Maggie led her to Egyptian Airlines' ticketing area, where travelers, a few women in head scarves, wheeled their luggage beside them towards a line already forming amongst the belted stanchions that zigzagged up to the check-in counter. The sun disk logo of Egyptian Airlines hung prominently on the pristine wall. Several check-in attendants of Egyptian Airlines in blue and white uniforms were already attending to would-be passengers.

They quickly found their place in line. "How about you guys?" Hillary asked. The hush of conversation and the hurried scruff of footsteps surrounded them. "You can't come into the Gate area without tickets."

Cheryl rummaged through her purse searching for something as Maggie held close the luggage to take on her "trip." "We already bought cheap tickets to Albany," Cheryl said, and then, she plucked out what she was looking for: Hillary's boarding pass and wallet. "Here," she said, handing over her alter ego Hilaria's passport, driver's license, and boarding pass. "That should be everything you need."

She took the items in hand and waited for her turn in line. It certainly was a different experience, she marveled. As Secretary of State, she had her own plane called SAM, short for Special Air Mission, for official State trips and not so official ones as well . . .

The line gave way, and the check-in attendant soon called on them. "May I help you," the attendant asked, wearing a hijab headscarf.

With Cheryl and Maggie, she went up to the counter with documents in tow.

"Boarding passes . . ." she said with a hint of an accent as she typed something on the computer console, but when she looked up, she stared fixedly at Hillary. "plea—" A trace of surprise crossed the attendant's face.

Hillary suspected she may have recognized her under the black wig and looked down and away from the attendant.

"Is there a problem?" Maggie said, moving up and shielding Hillary.

"No, no," the attendant, brought out of her momentary shock. "Um," she said and viewed the computer console again, though she didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular.

Cheryl grabbed the documents from her hand and shoved them onto the desk. "Please hurry this along?"

"Yes, ri-right away," the attendant said uncertainly. She picked up the documents and inputted them into the computer console, but when she got to her "driver's license," she looked skeptically at the driver's license picture and then to Hillary again.

Continuing to block the attendant's view and keeping Hillary behind her, Maggie audibly cleared her throat.

The attendant got back to her duties and pushed the documents along with the airline ticket. "Enjoy your flight . . ." she said, though she still tried to get a good look at "Hilaria."

Hillary wouldn't let her and discreetly looked down. "Thank you," Cheryl said, confiscating the documents, and all three of them headed towards the security area.

"I think she recognized me," Hillary said to both of them.

"She'll forget," Maggie said to her, and looking back, Hillary saw other passengers already taking up her attention, though she did catch the flight attendant make one last glance at them. "Let's keep going," Maggie added.

"Yeah," Cheryl agreed and already fixed her gaze to the next gauntlet of airport security.

Oh no, Hillary thought. The TSA. Already another line formed where TSA screeners manned the various booths and scanners to check for any terrorist activity. Men and women and a few children had removed their shoes while personal items like shoes, wallets, and purses moved through the conveyor belt.

"Let's get it over with," Cheryl said with a resigned tone, and once more, they took their place in yet another line.

As they moved up the line, Hillary debated the merits of increased security in the nation's airports in her mind. Unlike many young people, she remembered distinctly the days before such heavy-handed measures were instituted after 9/11. She knew, however, they couldn't go back to those days. As Senator, she supported increased airport security with votes for the PATRIOT Act and others. It was the right vote, but yet, she knew the inconvenience America's airline travelers faced every day.

This exercise was a teachable moment, she decided. Still, ideas, too many ideas, bubbled in her head about perhaps mitigating the inconvenience of air travel. She made a mental note to tell Barack about some of her proposals.

They made their way to the gate area, and she hurried onto her plane—

"Hillary wait," Cheryl called out. "We can't go in yet."

Hillary stopped and turned back. Oh right, she thought, briefly forgetting that they had to wait to board a plane. Around them, passengers sat on the various seats or walked to their designated gates. A CNN news report blared on the various LCD flat screens that hung on the walls.

"Cheryl, Hillary," Maggie said. She had stayed back and stared at a video display board detailing flight times. The two of them went towards her. "Take a look at this," she added, upon making their way. "The flight's delayed." Maggie pointed at the display board.

What? she thought, slightly panicked. The flight's delayed? It couldn't be, and she looked at the video display board. Sure enough, one line said Egyptian Airlines flight delayed to 4:30 PM.

"Let me see that," Cheryl said, taking a closer look. Hillary already tried to think of other ways. A delay wasn't part of the plan especially with Huma in danger.

"Wait," Cheryl said, pointing at the video display board, her finger directed to another Egyptian Airlines flight time. "We're the flight before. The 1:30 flight."

Maggie peered closer as if to check, but then saw her mistake. "Oh," she said. "You're right."

Hillary breathed a sigh of relief. "That's alright," she said to Maggie. "I got confused about this board too." She gave her a big toothy grin.

"Gate B28, it looks like," Maggie said, attempting to save face, and with that, they headed towards the gate but not before stopping at a Panda Express in the food court.

Their greasy lunches in tow, they sat together on the black acrylic seats with Cheryl taking out the foam containers of food from the plastic bag.

"What'd you order?" Hillary asked.

"I got you the fried rice and orange chicken," Cheryl said as she handed each of them their foam takeout containers filled with the Asian fast casual food.

She opened the container covering her lunch, and a heavy cloud of steam wafted up at her. Inside, globules of delectable glazed chicken with the added benefit of bacon rested beside a bed of fried rice.

Sorry, Michelle, Hillary thought guiltily, and she ripped open her plastic Spork packet and dug into her delicious Asian fare.

"What ticket did we get?" Hillary said in between bites.

Beside her, both of her friends enjoyed their Panda Express lunches as well. Cheryl raised a finger to finish her bite and then rummaged through the documents. Bringing it up for a closer view, she frowned.

"Coach," she said.

That surprised her. She hadn't ridden coach in, come to think of it, she didn't quite remember the last time she rode in coach.

"I told Philippe to get—"

"That's alright," Hillary said. "I can manage." Besides, she thought, how inconvenient could it be?

They finished their lunches and made small talk even while through the glass of the terminal, airplanes loaded and unloaded on the tarmac.

At last, the intercom sounded what they'd been waiting for. "Now boarding Egyptian Airlines," the slightly-accented female voice said. Roused, the passengers all got up to head to their flight.

"That's us," Hillary said, though she knew she was the only one going into the plane.

Together, they headed towards the gate.

"Call us," Cheryl said aloud even as a crush of people began to separate her from her friends.

"We'll stay in touch," Maggie called out, throwing her purse towards her.

"I will," she said to both of them as she caught the purse with her hand. The wave of people, though, pushed her away more and more, and Hillary had no choice but to move with the crowd.

She followed the others on the jet bridge towards the actual plane. As she went inside the plane proper, a flight attendant greeted her, and inside, she shimmied her way past first class and business all the way to the cramped confines of coach.

Seeing the seats squeezed together without thought or heed to human anatomy, Hillary instantly missed her SAM plane. Even on special missions, she took SAM, the plane designated for the Secretary of State, where she had her own private cabin. And she thought _that_ was uncomfortable.

The people already seated mumbled to themselves looking all too inconvenienced.

Finally, she found her seat and tried to put her purse in the overhead bin.

"I can help you with that," a balding middle aged man in a Bahama shirt said.

"No no," she said, pushing past him and shoving the purse in. Her gun was inside, using a special sensor to fool the airport scanners.

The middle aged man's smile vanished, taking affront to her refusal to help her. " _Geez, bitch,"_ he mumbled under his breath.

Hillary ignored the insult. She was used to such epithets but usually on the internet like say YouTube comments and rarely to her face.

She took a seat, but to her dismay it was the middle seat. Not even a window view, she thought. The one who did sit by the window already had his head on the porthole window fast asleep.

A young woman, in a Juicy Couture tracksuit, sat down on the aisle seat beside her and quickly took out her iPhone and started texting.

She was always interested in the views of young people, and this time was no different. Besides, she missed having someone to talk to. "Those are cute earrings," she said, using her customary icebreaker. People were sometimes intimidated to see her, and she found complimenting others got the conversation going.

The young woman, however, as if inconvenienced, only gave her a look and quickly went back to texting.

Rebuffed, Hillary sat back in her cramped seating, already having lost both of the elbow rests to her seatmates.

This is going to be a long flight, Hillary thought.

•••

 _THE WHITE HOUSE  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ **  
** _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _SEPTEMBER 20, 2012_

The big screen video monitor now displayed the seal of the President of the United States, a bald eagle set against a blue and white backdrop clutching thirteen arrows and fig leaves in each of its claws. A moment before, President Obama had watched CIA agents storm the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters in Cairo, a rescue mission he ordered to free the captured Huma Abedin. The mission had been going well at first. Trained spies, both American and Egyptian with silencers in hand, neutralized the enemy first at the lobby and then to the inner bowels of the compound itself. Then, it all went wrong. The last image Obama saw was that of an agent, a spy cam sewed into his clothes, falling down to the ground. The screen went to static and then to the Presidential Seal itself.

"What do you mean we lost them?" Obama said to CIA Director and Five-Star General David Petraeus who was in Langley, the CIA headquarters, speaking through the small touch panel built into the desk. The President was in the Situation Room, or more likely Situation _Rooms._ While there was a main conference room deep in the basement of the White House, the Situation Room encompassed all the individual rooms, support staff, and adjoining halls that served as the president's base for the most confidential of American missions and reports. He chose a small office for this occasion not far from the other office where he watched Osama bin Laden brought to justice by American soldiers. Of course, Wolf Blitzer, the gray-maned and prodigiously bearded CNN host, had his own Situation Room, but Obama didn't like thinking about that.

Seated behind a desk in a leather executive chair, the President gripped a stress ball in his hand as he stared at the video monitor.

"Ascertaining the situation, Mr. President," Petraeus said through the touch panel. The communication capabilities of the White House allowed Obama to contact anyone around the world, all secured. "It's almost like they knew we were coming," he continued incredulously.

The President squeezed the stress ball into his grip. "Find out and get back to me," he said. The sound feed cut out, and then, he threw the stress ball, causing a loud thud as it bounced against the wall and on the floor.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go, the President thought. The CIA said it would be an easy kill and retrieve mission, but obviously, they had grossly underestimated the Muslim Brotherhood. Things hadn't exactly been going according to plan lately, Syria being the most glaring example.

A mole was the most likely culprit, he knew. He'd been told of disturbing leaks of information, and Huma's capture and now this disastrous mission only intensified his own suspicion that they'd been compromised. But who? he asked himself, and he started hating himself for not knowing, for not being the change he knew he should be.

And as each second ticked by, the more danger to Huma. They would know there was a rescue attempt for her, and he tried not to think of what they'll do to her in retaliation.

There was no time to waste now, he knew. He needed his best agent, even if that agent was someone he couldn't fully control. He pressed a button on the touchscreen panel installed onto his oak desk.

"Anita," he said to the White House secretary. "Get me Philippe Reines."

"Yes, Mr. President," Anita Breckenridge said. The clacks of a keyboard sounded in the foreground. "Patching him through."

A moment later, the video display cut from the Presidential Seal to the deer-in-the-headlights look of Philippe Reines. Fortunately, he was already in Hillaryland Ops at the State Department. Hillary's communication's director sat at one of the worktables, his face cast in the soft glow of computer monitors.

Obama stood up and put his hands on his hips. "Philippe, where's Hillary?"

" _Hillary?"_ Philippe croaked. " _Um, Hillary who?"_

"I don't have time for one of your jokes," Obama said, slightly annoyed. Normally, he would be in good spirits with him but not at this moment.

" _Oh that Hillary,"_ Philippe said with a nervous laugh. " _Let me get that for you."_ He proceeded to "type" away at the keyboard, though Obama could tell he wasn't since he didn't hear any sounds.

Obama didn't know what was up with Philippe. Though a jokester, he knew Philippe was more professional than this. "Get me Hillary," he finally said.

Philippe tugged at his shirt collar. " _Um, um,"_ he said as his eyes shifted back and forth.

At this point, he knew something was up with Hillary, and he wasn't going to like it. "Tell me," he said, staring straight at Philippe.

At that moment, off in the corner, a door opened at Hillaryland Ops. Light filtered in for a moment, and then Dan Schwerin, Hillary's speechwriter, came running in.

" _She landed in Cairo,"_ he said breathlessly, unaware Obama was watching through a monitor at a desk where Philippe sat. " _I think we can actually pull this off!"_

His words seemed to hang in the air at both Hillaryland Ops and the White House Situation Room. Philippe palmed his face while Obama only glared at the monitor afraid he was about to lose whatever composure he had left.

•••

 _EL MOKATTAM_ _  
_ _CAIRO, EGYPT_ _SEPTEMBER 21, 2012_

Hillary Clinton, wearing a helmet to promote responsible head safety, slowed her motorcycle and parked it by the side of the road. Putting her foot, in low-heeled pumps, to the ground to steady the motorcycle, she removed her helmet, revealing a headscarf that she now wore to disguise herself in the Islamic country, and then looked up at the imposing structure before her. The walled compound of the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters rose into the sky, the tallest building in Mokattam, and she knew inside, that Huma was there. She could already feel her there.

It was afternoon in the sleepy suburb of Mokattam, and while a few pedestrians and vehicles passed by, no one recognized or even paid much attention to her. Just the way she wanted.

She hopped off the motorcycle, and quietly removing the headscarf, she went into a side alley between the walls of the Muslim Brotherhood HQ and an apartment building. The wall of the compound was high, clearly giving Hillary flashbacks of the walls of Muammar Gaddafi's compound in Tripoli, but it was not high enough.

Using the carefully honed art of parkour, Hillary readied to scale the walls of the compound. But first, she had to use the apartments as a jumping off point.

With a deep breath, Hillary made a running start, placed her foot onto the apartment wall, and then jumped up, where just in time, she grabbed onto the a tiny balcony ledge. She heaved herself up and onto the balcony ledge where she hoped no one was watching. Hard part's over with, she thought.

She climbed again onto a balustrade and jumped up once more, grabbing hold of another balcony ledge on the next floor up. Up she went again onto the balcony where she was now able to look down upon the wall like being on top of a public opinion poll.

Not wanting people to notice her, she quickly climbed onto the railing, first jumping down onto the top coping of the wall and then down to the courtyard of the Muslim Brotherhood compound itself. Hurriedly, she stole onto a veranda and hugged the side of the wall to mask her infiltration. Removing her SIG Sauer from the shoulder holster hidden underneath her pantsuit jacket, she then looked out onto the courtyard. Curiously enough, no one was there. The place seemed oddly deserted. The Muslim Brotherhood was in power now in Egypt led by the increasingly dictatorial Mohamed Morsi after decades of being forced underground. Yet, no Brotherhood members guarded or milled about their main party headquarters.

Maybe there was a rally, Hillary said to herself. Or maybe Obama's men got here first. She pressed on with her mission. At the front door with her SIG Sauer at the ready, she prodded the door and peeked in.

She drew back a breath. Two bodies, clearly of Muslim Brotherhood members, lay on the floor of the small darkened lobby, while another person's body hung limp against the reception desk with a blank expression on his face. Hillary gulped and entered. Gun at the ready, she carefully made her way through the lobby on the lookout past the dead—

 _Bzzzt Bzzzt Bzzzt_

Hillary stopped. A cell phone vibrated in her pantsuit jacket pocket. She had earlier obtained a spare cell phone in case of an emergency, having left her BlackBerry back in Whitehaven to prevent it from being tracked. Somehow, she knew she wasn't going to like what the other person on the line would say.

"—llary," The voice of President Obama came through as she pressed the spare cell phone to her ear. "I gave you express orders—"

She had hoped this wouldn't happen. "I told you, Barack," she replied, feeling slightly guilty at her insubordination. "I'll do what I have to. I'm willing to accept whatever punish—"

Her instincts caught something, and she whirled about with her SIG Sauer pointed towards the hallway adjoining the lobby. Somebody was there.

"It's me," Huma said, stepping out of the shadows. She looked tired with her usually immaculate hair uncharacteristically unkempt, but she was okay. "It's me," she repeated, holding her hands up in front of her

"Huma?" Hillary asked, almost as if she couldn't believe she was standing there. She was so worried about her wellbeing and now she was there . . .

Hillary went up, and both protégé and mentor embraced. "But how?" Hillary asked, pulling back and facing her.

"I'll explain later," Huma replied. She let go of Hillary's embrace and instantly went towards the corpse of a Muslim Brotherhood member on the floor where she quickly kneeled and found a spare gun on his person.

"Let's go," Hillary said, looking out at the courtyard and back to safety now that the mission was complete

Huma checked the Makarov pistol for ammo, and finding some, she pushed the clip back into the gun. "This is urgent, we have to—"

"Hillary?" Obama said, coming through the cell phone. "What's happening there, Hillary?"

"I have her," Hillary said back, putting the cell phone back to her ear. "We're about to—"

"We can't," Huma interrupted as she stood back. She glanced at the cell phone, seeming to notice it for the first time, and then looked past Hillary to the darkened inner hallways of the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters itself.

"The files," she said, looking back at her boss. "I found files in my earlier mission. It's about Benghazi . . ."


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Hillary's cell phone sounded once again with a stern voice. Hillary, return at once," Obama said. His voice became inaudible for a moment, disrupting their communication. "—turn at once. Do you hear me?!"

Huma's eyes flickered between her boss and the cell phone. "The Sands of Allah," Huma said finally. "In the computer files, it mentioned something about the Sands of Allah. It has something to do with the Benghazi attack."

She thought for a moment about what she was going to do. Barack was the President, but she already knew she had to investigate the matter. Besides, this was like another 3 AM phone call. She had to answer it.

"Hillary!" Obama said again in the cell phone. "Hill—" Hillary turned off the spare cell phone and put it back in her pantsuit jacket. Huma could only give a concerned glance at what happened.

Raising up her SIG Sauer, Hillary nodded at Huma, who only lowered her gaze for a moment but nodded back at her. As they made their way through the marbled lobby, with Islamic calligraphy on its walls, they made their way to the adjoining hallway.

"What happened?" Hillary said as they hurried through the hall.

"I'm not exactly sure," Huma replied, keeping her gun close. "I heard shouts outside my cell, but in the chaos, I managed to pick a lock." They came upon a stairwell that went upwards to the inner sanctum of the Muslim Brotherhood.

Hillary led the way up the stairwell with Huma following close behind.

"A double agent," Huma said, trailing behind her boss. As Hillary made her way up, she looked back, the words concerning her. In spycraft, the double agent was the most dangerous spy of all.

"I was captured by a double agent named Dee," Huma said, her beautiful face saddened by the memory.

"Dee?" Hillary asked. "Dee who?"

"Dee . . ." As they rounded a corner, a Caucasian man emerged from a room into the hallway. A keffiyeh covered his face, and holding a gun at his side, he threw something into the room he had just left. "Romney," Huma finished.

Upon seeing them, Dee ran back, firing his Grach pistol as he did so, but Hillary quickly grabbed Huma and hid behind the cover of a wall. The shots rang out, just barely missing them.

"I guess we found Dee," Hillary said. She stepped out of her hiding spot and fired her SIG Sauer only to see his form round a corner, vanishing out of sight.

She wasn't about to let him get away. "Get what you can!" Hillary said to Huma. As Hillary ran ahead however . . .

 _BOOM_

An explosion blasted from the room, sending a ball of fire out and wood, plaster, and debris spraying in all directions. It forced Hillary back and onto the floor as smoke filled the air.

Huma came to her side. "Are you alright?" she asked, coughing.

Her ears rang, but she nodded anyways. "Do what I told you," she said, coughing. "Go!"

Huma needed no prodding. She ran ahead into the billowing smoke to retrieve whatever computer files she could obtain from the destroyed server room.

Coughing again, Hillary picked herself up, ready for round two with the double agent. Where did he go? she asked herself. Like many of her decisions, she decided to poll her intuition.

In general, where do you think Dee has gone? she asked herself. 58 percent, an overwhelming majority of herself, felt he fled outside and searched for a getaway vehicle. 10 percent of her intuition said to the roof, possibly an aerial vehicle, while the rest was split between hiding inside or meeting up with accomplices.

The decision made, she looked outside through the busted windows. She couldn't catch up to him, but if she could find a shortcut . . .

Quickly, she hopped from the windowsill, the shards of broken glass biting into her hand, onto a landing outside. She was now on the hanging canopy of the headquarters, and there, she could see the full sweep of Al Mokattam, with the hazy Cairo skyline of domed mosques, squat buildings, and minarets faint in the distance.

Down below, on the street past the walled gate of the Muslim Brotherhood building, Dee had already thrown a driver off his stopped vehicle. Before he finished the carjacking, he first glared at Hillary and then hopped into the driver's seat. A crowd began to gather with their hands upraised to accost the mysterious man for the theft of the vehicle, but Dee ignored them and gripped the steering wheel.

She had no time to spare. Hillary ran and hopped down first to the coping of the front wall and then onto solid ground, doing a forward roll as she landed on the street. Hustling, she ran to the crowd, but Dee had already escaped. The engine roared and the wheels screeched against the pavement to head up to the expressway.

Hillary couldn't believe her luck. She thought about trying to shoot at him, but the crowd had already blocked the view shouting invectives at the escaping thief. She still had her motorcycle, though maybe she could . . .

Just then, a younger man turned around, and his eyes grew wide as he saw her. "Hillary?" the younger man said incredulously.

Uh oh, she thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The mention of her name brought her to the attention of the rest of the crowd. More and more heads turned toward her.

"Hillary! Hillary!" the crowd began to shout. An older woman in a hijab headscarf stared at her with an open mouth as if she couldn't believe the famous Secretary of State was in her suburban neighborhood.

She backed away from the oncoming crowd. A few times as First Lady, she would go out into Washington, DC wearing a baseball cap as a disguise. The wide-eyed stares of those who recognized her reminded her of those in the crowd now.

"No no, you're mistaken," she tried to say, but her attempts at obfuscation were drowned out by the increasingly excited chatter.

"Hillary!" they cried out as they converged upon her. In all directions, she saw only their warm smiles, eager to meet her. "What are you doing here?" a voice from the crowd asked aloud. "Where is your security?" another person asked.

An overeager fan went up beside her, and with a big smile, the young man held up his smartphone and snapped a picture. The camera shutter sounded, and Hillary already knew that picture wasn't going to be her best one. A fleeting image of the picture appeared on the smartphone screen, the young man smiling and a blonde long-tressed Hillary staring ahead as if caught unaware.

On the roadway, another young man slowed on his motorcycle and stopped before the gathered crowd. "Out of the way!" the young man shouted to the crowd with a wave of his arm.

Seeing him, Hillary got an idea. "Excuse me, pardon me" she said to the crowd, who still followed her as she wound her way.

"Where's Bill?" some in the crowd shouted after.

"USA ok!" an older man said to her, giving a thumbs up sign.

She moved past the crowd towards the young man seated on his motorcycle waiting for the crowd to disperse "Don't have time to explain," she said, and then, she grabbed the young man from his motorcycle seat and pushed him onto the ground.

The crowd, once friendly, turned mildly hostile, and a chorus of hisses and boos greeted her. Like a heckler in a political rally, she ignored them. As she hopped onto the motorcycle, the young man only looked up with wide-eyed awe, a trace of recognition now on his youthful face. "Hillary?" he asked.

"Contact the American embassy," she said, readying herself on the motorcycle. The young man continued to look up, still shocked at his brush with celebrity. "Tell them Hillary sent you!"

Holding the clutch and placing one foot on the ground for balance, she gunned the throttle and quickly circled the motorcycle to catch up to Dee. The motorcycle's tires screeched as she rounded, causing tire marks on the road, and then, laying low, she began to speed away on the roadway. A middle aged man moved out of the way just in time to avoid Hillary's path.

As she rode, buildings whizzed past as she searched frantically for Dee's stolen getaway car. He couldn't have gone far, she said to herself. She didn't know if she believed it or if she was just fooling herself.

An intersection neared and rearing left onto Road No. 9, she saw it. Dee, in his bulky vehicle had a harder time at clearing traffic, but he tried anyways, weaving in and out of the lanes.

Hillary gunned it again, the pavement screeching under the speed of the motorcycle. Dee was too far ahead, already heading down the curved downward slope of the El Mokattam Expressway.

She couldn't let him get away, and again, she pressed on the throttle, the motorcycle's engines already screaming under the strain.

With her speed, she quickly caught up to the vehicles ahead of her. A vehicle soon blocked her way, but deftly, she weaved past him. Not long after did she overtake the first vehicle than another vehicle soon appeared in front of her. Hillary quickly veered right just barely missing a collision with the second vehicle even as the air whooshed past her.

Whew, that was close, she thought. She followed the curve of the road and soon, Road No. 9 turned to the El Mokattam roadway. The jumbled masses of buildings soon vanished as well to be replaced by the famed Mokattam hills. Heading down the roadway, the Mokattam hills, rocky and barren, rose ever higher around her.

Far up ahead, Dee's vehicle was having an increasingly hard time with the Cairo traffic. It weaved in and out of traffic even as the traffic grew, all heading to Cairo proper. Hillary tried to keep one eye on the road but also on Dee in the distance. For the first time, she was thankful for Cairo traffic.

Then, she saw it. Dee's car sped towards a bridge over a ravine, the imposing walls and mosque of the Saladin Citadel rising in the distance, but before he could get there, his vehicle slammed into the backside of another's. The crash of metal and debris crunched and shattered, an ear-splitting cacophony even from Hillary's vantage point.

Hillary caught up with some distance and skidded to the side of the road, awestruck at the violence. Not much remained of Dee's vehicle. The side of the hood crunched in and off and along with the shattered glass and dripping oil, Hillary wondered if he could have survived such a crash. It reminded her a lot of her ill-fated healthcare push in '93.

Vehicles passed by her, but they didn't go far. Behind the wrecked cars, a traffic jam formed. Horns blared from impatient motorists, but a fair number of concerned Cairenes stepped out of their vehicles and warily went up to the crash site.

Could he have survived? she thought.

Dee answered her unspoken question. From out of the wreckage, he heaved himself out of the front seat and onto the remnants of the car. Dust streaked his face and blood poured form a gash on his forehead, but apparently he was still lucid.

A couple of good Samaritans tried to come to his aid, but he only pushed them away as he headed to the road's edge.

Hillary couldn't believe it, and for a moment, she sat on her motorcycle stunned that Dee not only survived but was actually still making a run for it.

Dee went to the road's edge and then, headed down the rocky hill. Shaken out of her complacency, she hurried out of the motorcycle, pulled out her SIG Sauer, and ran up the side of the road. She couldn't let him get away.

Looking out, a connector road curved up to the hill road of El Mokattam, and among the teeming cars, Dee continued his escape with a hand on his injured side. She raised her SIG Sauer and took careful aim.

Her expert marksmanship had him in her sights, but she couldn't take it. _Dammit,_ she said to herself. There was too much danger for collateral damage and hitting innocent civilians.

Down below, Dee pressed on. Now past the connector road, his form headed up a street towards a jumble of squat, tenement-like buildings. Curiously enough, it wasn't the buildings that were the most distinguishing feature of this section of Cairo. It was trash. Mounds and mounds of trash filled the space from the roads and alleys and even on the rooftops.

Hillary wasted no time and immediately set down the rocky hill, scattering rocks and kicking up sand as she made her way down. Making it to the bottom of the hill, she then quickly gave chase even as Dee Romney entered the mysterious neighborhood filled with trash and rubbish . . .

She doubled her effort, which, given her aging frame, was a feat, but she pressed on, chasing Dee until she too entered the neighborhood. It teemed with people, and melting into the busy street, she discreetly covered her nose and glanced around at the trash strewn neighborhood around her.

It was the farthest thing from her home in Chappaqua. Not only was the trash openly strewn about, but some were in bags categorized and separated into cans or plastics as if it was used for collection.

People went about their day in the neighborhood, but they, rather than shunning the trash, _worked_ with it. A woman, her hair free and not covered by a headscarf, rummaged through the trash with her two children. Men in the crowd carried garbage bags over their shoulders, and another man led his donkey, pulling a cart loaded with trash, down the street.

She'd read about this place before perhaps by a vaguely remembered briefing by Jake or maybe it was a documentary, but searching her mind, she finally remembered. This was called Garbage City in Cairo, and these people were called the Zeballeen. A Coptic Christian people, the Zeballeen collected the trash of Cairo, and they rummaged through its contents looking for anything to sell and make a living. Even more impressive was their ability to recycle seventy-five percent of its contents to reuse. While she was ambivalent about the way the Zeballeen earned their living, she couldn't help but admire their entrepreneurial spirit—

Up ahead, she saw Dee's hobbling form move through the crowd, and she picked up her pace. Though the air tasted rotten, she ignored it and made her way through the crowd with some eyeing an obvious stranger in their little community.

She went up the street, and she saw him again, hurrying through the crowd, though his injury slowed him down. Dee looked over his shoulder, a flicker of panic on his face and then turned back, increasing his speed.

Concealing her SIG Sauer as best she could, she moved through the crowd to reach Dee. In the distance, however, Dee reached down for his gun and then raised the Grach pistol up high, his finger on the trigger.

 _BANG BANG_

Just as he wanted, panic ensued amongst the crowd, and a mad rush began away from the source of the gunfire. Hillary caught the wave of the crowd even as screams sounded. In the chaos, she pulled out her gun and pointed. The crowd had thinned around Dee, and she could see him more clearly than before, although the crowd bumping against her from every which way didn't help matters.

She pointed at Dee's hobbling form, but the more she tried to aim, the more people got in the way. It was too much of a risk, she thought. She couldn't risk it.

Once more, she managed her way through the crowd and hurried to catch up even as Dee turned a corner into a trash strewn alleyway.

Hillary made it and looked for any sign of Dee, but to her distress, she couldn't find him. The alleyway was dark with the buildings seeming to be too close together, but it was more or less deserted with the occasional goat feeding on the rubbish, she should be able to see him.

Gun at the ready, Hillary entered the darkened alleyway. He couldn't have gone far, she knew. But where did he go?

As she made her way, she warily searched for Dee as piles and piles of garbage-filled trash bags seemed to grow beside her. He was around here somewhere. All she had to do was find him.

Even as she passed, the trash heap beside her burst out, sending plastic bags filled with trash spreading in all directions. Dee finally made his move. Out of the trash heap, he lunged at her.

Hillary noticed, but it was too late. She fired, but Dee parried her hand away, causing the shot to go astray as well as sending the gun loose from her grip. As the gun escaped her hand, she cried out at the sudden attack.

Dee struck her again, this time aiming his fist at her abdomen, but Hillary regained her bearings, was able to grab hold of his wrist, and deflect the blow away from her.

It was Hillary's turn to attack. Trained in the arts of Muay Thai as well as Krav Maga, the martial arts originating from Israel and now used by the CIA and DSS, she kicked and punched at Dee with furious speed, even as Dee blocked her attacks. Hillary especially liked Krav Maga because like politics it was no holds barred; it allowed her to fight dirty if necessary.

She kicked at his groin, hoping to incapacitate him, but Dee deflected the blow with his arm, causing her to lose her balance and stumble away from him.

Dee didn't waste this opportunity to escape. Quickly, he ran over and began to ascend the trash heap up to the rooftop of the tenement building. She wasn't going to let him get away. Hillary followed him towards the trash heap and went up the rubbish pile as well. Leaks and juices from the trash and plastic bags seeped to her hands and stained her pantsuit with some of the trash leakage even landing on her face, but she didn't let it faze her.

Dee continued upwards, but she was able to catch up until finally she reached up and grabbed hold of his ankle. At first, he tried to shake her loose, but then, he found a better idea. With his other foot, he kicked at another set of trash, sending it cascading down her.

Crying out, she had no choice but to let go and shield herself from the oncoming mini avalanche of trash. Once it passed by her, she saw with dismay that Dee made his way onto the tenement roof.

She climbed up once more, now feeling the slightest fatigue set in. Still, she pressed on and up onto the tenement roof . . . only to find Dee waiting for her with a pilfered shiv made from a sharpened piece of corrugated metal in his hand.

He stabbed at her, but with her reflexes, she dodged just in time, grabbed his wrist and twisted it, causing him to cry out and lose his grip on the shiv. Hillary caught it and kicked him, sending him back away from her. Even here, trash filled the rooftops around its edges, some even hanging over the edge, and with new weapon in hand, she attacked.

She slashed at him with her shiv, sending deadly arc after deadly arc, causing him to back away as he continuously tried to avoid her slashes. Hillary slashed away, but he kept moving back and back even as she did not relent.

Dee kept moving back until there was nowhere else to go. On the tenement rooftop's edge, Dee stepped back a bit too far and with arms flailing back, began to lose his balance.

When your opponent is drowning, Hillary thought, recalling her friend and Bill's 1992 campaign manager "Ragin Cajun" James Carville's famous saying, throw the son of a bitch an anvil. Shiv in hand, Hillary lunged forward to stab at the increasingly precarious Dee.

He, however, was not done quite yet. Even as Hillary lunged forward, Dee grabbed hold of Hillary's pantsuit lapel and wrenched back. To her horror, they both hurtled over the side of the tenement roof with both of their bodies falling over the edge.

Hillary fell to the ground . . .

Onto a bed of trash, breaking her fall. She soon became submerged in the trash heap, and for a moment, all was darkness as trash completely engulfed her.

Hillary flailed about trying to free herself from the mountain of trash she found herself in. If she wasn't careful, she could suffocate in there.

A moment later, Hillary got herself out and gasped aloud as she breathed in air. She didn't have time to be thankful. Remembering Dee, she looked around wildly for any sign of him, but she saw only the trash that was everywhere in Garbage City.

He was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 _THE WHITE HOUSE_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 22, 2012_

The portrait of George Washington, dour and dressed in a colonial military uniform, gazed down at President Obama seated at his Resolute desk. It was an overcast day casting a shadow over the Oval Office that normally would be bathed in sunlight. As he sat, the President read a report in his hand while both Hillary and Huma stood at attention awaiting his word.

"I couldn't get anymore," Huma said. Now dressed impeccably in a Donna Karan business casual three-quarter sleeve tunic and pants, it seemed hard to believe she was a prisoner of the Muslim Brotherhood just a day ago. "I tried but the room was blasted. Most of the files were destroyed beyond recognition."

Seated in front of them, behind the desk, Obama kept reading the classified report sent in by Huma. "The Sands of Allah . . ." he said gravely.

Huma gulped slightly at the mention of the words and then nodded. "From what I was able to read, it had something to do with the stolen HAARP device."

Hillary felt like she wasn't even in the room, but she tried anyways to stand resolutely in her orange pantsuit, the same pantsuit she wore to the 2008 Democratic National Convention. Barack had been cold to her ever since she got back from Cairo. She couldn't blame him after what she'd done.

Obama looked up for a moment from his reading, but only to Huma and never to her. Then, he leafed through to another page of Huma's classified report. The manila folder the report came in, with the word "CLASSIFIED" stamped in red lettering, lay off to the side on the President's desk.

"Dee as well," Obama said finally, his tone seemingly neutral but buried deep, there was anger there. The mention of the name caught Hillary's attention. She knew first-hand the young Romney's complete defection.

"I apologize, Mr. President," Huma said. "We failed to capture him." She glanced warily at Hillary for a moment.

Obama nodded, his demeanor signaling that he didn't blame them. "His defection. It's . . . concerning."

Hillary bent down her head. It was her fault he was able to get away. The mission was to rescue Huma, but Dee's escape made her feel like the mission was a failure all the same.

The odd thing was she didn't know why Dee would defect. There was no indication from his dossier that he had converted to Al Qaeda's radical interpretation of Islam. As much as she tried to figure it out, she couldn't find a reason why Dee would betray his country, a country that had blessed him with its riches as a scion of the Romney clan.

Hillary straightened her posture once more and faced Obama at his desk. Sometimes, she thought, Barack was like ice; she couldn't tell what lay beneath. It was hard to tell what displeased him more, her insubordination or Dee's escape. Knowing him, it was probably both.

Obama shuffled the report and threw it to the side of his desk, a weary look on his handsome, now more mature, face. "Our agents did find who Dee's working for." He picked up the classified folder on the desk, opened it, and handed a couple of pages to Huma, who, in turn, took it and handed a page to her.

Hillary took hold of the page, and there, a portrait of a handsome Middle Eastern man in a Saudi thawb garment and the ghutra and iqal Arabian head covering looked back at her. She was taken aback a bit. A terrorist in her mind conjured images of a monstrous individual, but this man was clearly handsome, almost charming. The word "WANTED" and "#2" was scrawled atop the attractive man's head.

"We don't have a name for him," Obama explained, putting away the classified folder and folding his hands together atop his desk. "He's merely called #2, second in command in the Al Qaeda hierarchy." Hillary caught a single glance from Barack, but he turned his gaze back at Huma. "As you know," he continued. "Al Qaeda has metastasized in various parts of the globe. Yemen, Somalia, Iraq, Syria, they've been able to find new adherents and gain operational capacity despite our counterterrorism efforts and despite bin Laden's death."

Hillary put the page to her side to concentrate on the briefing. "We don't know #2's whereabouts," Obama continued, "but wherever he is, he's provided the various Al Qaeda outfits recruits, financing, even spiritual guidance."

 _RING RING_

The phone rang on the President's desk and Obama pressed the speakerphone.

"Mr. President," the voice of Anita Decker Breckenridge said. "Mr. Plouffe, Mr. Messina, and Mr. Axelrod are here to see you for debate prep."

Obama sighed upon hearing the news. "Send them in Anita," he said, and then, he rubbed his temples. The 2012 election was nearing against Dee's father, Mitt Romney, and though Obama had a slight lead in the polls, it was an endless source of distraction. Hillary had noticed he'd been dreading the debate prep sessions, and he'd been neglecting it to concentrate on the very real world threats the United States faced. She wanted to warn him, however, about the upcoming first debate. From her experience as First Lady, she knew the adage that incumbent presidents tended to lose their first debates, something that Bill took to heart when they won their first debate against Dole. Barack had to be told, she knew, but the awkward nature of their relationship right now made her pause. Maybe she should warn Axelrod, she thought.

"You're both dismissed," Obama said to them. Huma looked over at her, waiting for her to go first, and tentatively, Hillary stepped back to head for the door. She had wanted to say a word to Barack, apologize for her actions, but he didn't give her a chance.

Huma made a move to follow her, but Obama held up his hand. "I need you stay for a moment, Huma."

She seemed surprised at the request but nodded nonetheless. Hillary gave her a glance. She had to follow orders this time, though, and headed for the door. Her footsteps tromped through the Presidential Seal rug, and she almost made it past the sofa to the northwestern doorway of the Oval Office before Obama called to her.

"And, Hillary," Obama said, causing her to turn back. His visage was like stone. "Don't disobey my orders again," he said.

There was nothing she could say. She merely nodded and headed out the door hoping that whatever damage she caused in their friendship, time would heal.

•••

The door closed behind them in the Oval Office, and Huma remained alone with the President. She didn't know why the President held her back, and somewhere buried inside her, she feared they would accuse her as a Manchurian candidate similar to a character in _Homeland,_ the hit show on Showtime, however irrational that was.

"I didn't want Hillary to hear this," the President said, still seated behind his desk. Huma listened in closer. Why would he tell me this and not her? she asked herself. She was only an aide after all.

"I'm giving you a secret mission," The President continued. "Our agents died in Cairo because of a mole. He revealed to the Muslim Brotherhood our exact plans and strategy." He looked as if it pained him to say what he was about to say next and then leaned in closer with a grave look on his face. "We think the mole's in Hillary's operation . . ."


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

 _SHERATON NEW YORK HOTEL_ _  
_ _NEW YORK CITY_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 24, 2012_

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," a lady's voice blared on the loudspeaker in the ballroom of the Sheraton New York Hotel, "PLEASE WELCOME PRESIDENT BILL CLINTON."

The crowd clapped politely at the mention of the former President's name.

"AND SECRETARY OF STATE, US DEPARTMENT OF STATE, HILLARY RODHAM CLINTON!"

At the mention of the former First Lady, the crowd, the men in suits and ties and the women in designer dresses, roared with approval and stood up for a standing ovation.

Hillary, in a turquoise patterned suit jacket and black pants, strode onto the stage with her husband who led the way past the ergonomic speaking chairs and towards the podium even as the theme to "Jurassic Park" played in the background. She thought John William's theme to the dinosaur film franchise and the book by Michael Crichton of the same name was an odd choice of music, but she went along with it. Bill looked back bemused, and she cackled with her boisterous laugh. He was thinking the same thing she was.

It was the Clinton Global Initiative's annual meeting and she was invited to headline the opening speech. It was also coincidentally the State Department's annual weeklong pilgrimage to New York when the world met for another UN General Assembly. Hillary had come to look forward to it now. The machinery of State, entire departments and sub-departments, would take over the twenty-fourth floor of the Waldorf Astoria, the famed hotel nearby, to set up shop and host the world's leaders or her foreign minister counterparts. When this happened, she and Bill could spend some quality time together, a difficult task with their hectic schedules.

The backdrop of the ballroom stage was bedecked with blue along with signage stating simply the words "Clinton Global Initiative" or its logo, stars forming a slanted letter C along with a triple arc through the C's center. They reached the podium, and looking over the assembled crowd seated around elegantly-draped circular tables, Bill took in the crowd's applause and obvious affection for them.

Hillary, off to her husband's side, smiled and waved at the crowd to no one in particular.

"Thank you very much, Thank you," Bill said, wearing a sharp dark striped suit. Someone in the crowd whooped and hollered. "Of all the useless introductions, this would top the list," he deadpanned, and the crowd laughed at the properly timed joke. As her husband continued his introduction speech, Hillary looked out over the crowd. It was a diverse crowd, as diverse as those interested in the minutiae of NGO work could be, and in the audience, she noticed Chelsea, Huma, their old friend Terry McAuliffe, astronaut and former Senator Glenn and his wife from Ohio, and lots and lots of rich people. Former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright sat stoically in her seat joining the motions with the crowd, though Hillary could tell she knew the gravity of her work.

"And for that reason more than any other, I'm glad, she could join us here this morning, thank you very much," Bill said. Finished with his speech, he turned to leave the podium and kissed his wife on the cheek.

Her husband left the stage, and smiling, she took to the podium as the crowd continued their applause.

"Good morning, Good morning," she said aloud. The crowd continued to clap, and then another swell of applause and cheers occurred. "Thank you, thank you," she said, raising her hands out trying to calm them.

Then, for some reason, they gave her a standing ovation and cheered even louder. "Thank you all, thank you," she said, getting more worried. If they had known what happened in Cairo, she thought bitterly, they wouldn't be so ecstatic.

"Thank you, thank you," she said once more, and at last, the crowd calmed down and sat back onto their seats, finally allowing her to give her speech.

Hillary took in a breath and finally began. "It's good to be amongst so many friends . . ."

Her prepared remarks was titled "Designing Diplomacy in the 21st Century," but hidden in the speech, her speechwriter, Dan Schwerin, inserted coded messages of her other job as one of America's elite secret agents.

Finally, the end of her speech came. "And unity on this throughout the international community is crucial," she warned. "Because extremists around the world are working hard to drive us apart. All of us need to stand together to resist these forces and to support democratic transitions under way in North Africa and the Middle East . . . so let's get to work for more freedom, democracy, opportunity, and dignity. Thank you all very much."

The crowd clapped and stood up but not as excitedly as before. She didn't know if that was due to the effects of the dour message of her speech or just fatigue from a wonky half-hour long speech. Probably the latter, she thought.

She and Bill hugged backstage, and soon, Chelsea joined them. Occasions like this came far too few and far between for her liking, and sure enough, Huma came to take her away, to the next event. First, she had to mill with the assembled people, taking pictures and chatting with them all the while Madeleine Albright watching her from a distance.

Did she know about Cairo? Hillary thought. It wouldn't surprise her if she had sources inside the DSS keeping her apprised of the situation.

She and her entourage: a collection of aides; DSS bodyguards, who knew she didn't need one and perhaps would be honored to defend _them_ from any danger; and of course, Huma went out to the lobby of the Sheraton and towards the waiting Cadillac DTS where she was to be taken straight to the Waldorf for official State business.

Past the pillared lobby of the Sheraton Midtown, newly renovated with marble floors and a contemporary design, they went out onto the busy streets of New York. Doormen opened the door for her, and soon, under the canopy of the Sheraton Midtown, she stepped foot into the Cadillac with Huma following shortly thereafter.

Hillary tried to make herself comfortable, and beside her, Huma, in a designer green Chanel dress, situated herself as well. "What's next?" she asked Huma as the car pulled away from the curb and joined the teeming traffic. All around them, skyscrapers rose into the sky, car horns honked, engines rumbled, and a recent addition, increased pedestrian rush in Times Square due to Mayor Bloomberg's Times Square pedestrianization initiative.

"Um," Huma said distractedly at first seeming to have lost her phone and then finding it by her seat. She picked it up and looked at her BlackBerry. "Asif Ali Zardari at 11."

Hillary looked out the window towards the teeming sidewalks where tourists and non-tourists alike milled about. He was Pakistan's president, she knew, the husband of the slain women's rights icon Benazir Bhutto, who was slain by terrorists. Another attack she failed to stop . . .

"Mrs. Clinton?" Huma asked beside her, concern on her face.

She was shaken out of her thoughts and then looked at her aide intently.

"There's something you have to know."

Hillary's eyes veered left and right at the sudden request. "What is it?" she asked uncertainly.

She waited as Huma gazed at her as if something pained her. It was as if her deputy chief of staff and fellow secret agent wanted to say a deep, dark secret, but then, she looked away. "Jake," she said quietly. "He said he received word from the DSS."

She wondered what it could be about, perhaps an update from the encrypted files they found in Cairo, but it was another thing to add to her itinerary. "Alright," she said to her. Of all the people, this young woman knew what this life was like.

Huma only smiled back pained and then looked out the window.

The Cadillac turned right onto Park Avenue, and Hillary too looked out the window of the slow moving vehicle. Her day was only beginning, she thought, with meetings with Magariaf of Libya, Karzai of Afghanistan, and lastly and most begrudgingly, Morsi of Egypt. The Muslim Brotherhood leader of Egypt still had the legitimacy of state, though she knew what his organization was up to. She'll have to hold her nose for that one. Or perhaps . . .

Hillary turned to Huma. "We'll send the other Hillary," she told her, referring to her body double when she couldn't attend functions due to her clandestine occupation. The CIA supplied the other Hillary and was a life-saver for many occasions not to mention incredibly close to the real article if she said so herself. Those whiz kids at the CIA even got her hair right, though sometimes she forgets to inform them forcing one time for the CIA to improvise with scrunchies and other hair accessories to hide their mistake.

Huma didn't seem to have heard her and continued to look out the window.

"Huma," Hillary said, this time louder.

Hearing her voice, she turned her attention back to her boss. "Oh yes, right," she said, shuffling in the car's leather seating. "I'll inform Philippe." Once more, she gave a pained smile.

Hillary nodded back. It seemed like she wasn't the only one distracted from her official duties this morning. The limestone clad Waldorf Astoria rose into view from the canyon of skyscrapers as the Cadillac came closer and closer to the stately skyscraper hotel once home to legendary figures like General Douglas MacArthur and Marilyn Monroe.

Already the front entrance of the hotel teemed with the vehicles of visiting dignitaries. Hillary sighed. It was going to be one of those days, she thought.

•••

 _CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 24, 2012_

I know what I want, and I get what I want, Alessandra James thought as she swiped on the screen of her iPhone, displaying luxury shoes and designer dresses. She sat in the mega deluxe kitchen of her ten-thousand square foot McMansion in the tony town of Chevy Chase, MD, a suburb outside of DC situated in one of the richest counties in the entire United States. Around her, the kitchen gleamed with marble countertops, a center island, and the latest in kitchen appliances.

A cashmere sweater worth $725 displayed prominently on the iPhone screen, and Alessandra immediately pressed "Buy" taking her straight to the checkout screen. I'll give it to the dog, she thought, continuing to shop using her black Am-Ex card, which of course, had a $250,000 spending minimum. It was such hard work.

In a cute fall outfit from Saks Fifth, she didn't notice her husband amble into the kitchen to head to the door that led to the garage. A balding but still fit man, he held his bag lunch in his hand. He opened the kitchen door slightly, revealing a momentarily glimpse of the Benz parked in the garage, but he turned around to his wife, who still concentrated all her attention on her iPhone e-shopping.

"Goodbye, snookums," he said, his voice quivering a tiny bit.

Alessandra pretended like she didn't hear. Maybe he'll think I'm deaf or something, she thought, staring at the screen and refusing to make eye contact with her husband. Fortunately, a cute purse showed up in her search, making her momentarily forget about the someone else in the room.

"Goodbye, snookums," her husband repeated, this time louder but with the same quiver in his voice.

Her finger swiped the screen down, but it was too much. The screen swiped all the way down to the bottom of the webpage and away from the Buy button. "God, Phil!" she shouted, frustrated at him as much as what had happened on her phone. "Look what you made me do!"

Phil gulped and looked as if he was about to cry. But he only looked away and clutching his bag lunch, headed out to the garage to head to the office.

As soon as the door shut, Alessandra rolled her eyes and went back to shopping. Now what was she going to do? Ugh. She tried to pick up the pieces and find the Buy button somewhere buried in the confines of her phone.

Her daughter sulked in from the living room, featuring floor to ceiling heights, and immediately headed to the refrigerator, which she opened to inspect its contents.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" Alessandra said, not taking her eyes off her iPhone.

An audible sigh came from behind the opened refrigerator door. "I'm too hot to go to school," Courtney said. She got a soda in her hand and placing it on the center island, she twisted the cap. As the fizzy sound of the soda sounded in the air, a momentary glimpse at her Mom caught her attention and a disgusted look crept into her face.

"Oh my God, Mom" she said horrified, staring directly at her smartphone. "That's like an old model. They came out with a new one like a week ago."

Alessandra stopped what she was doing and turned her attention slowly to her daughter. She didn't know about a new model. No one told her, and inside her head, the amused laughter of her friends sounded. Feeling sick to her stomach, she held up the smartphone with her forefinger and thumb as if it was garbage, pressed the foot pedal on her stainless steel trash can, lifting up the lid, and threw the offending smartphone in the trash. Yuck, she thought. And she was shopping on that phone. She immediately reached over to her purse to search for her compact.

Courtney drank from her soda bottle and then headed to the door that led to the garage. "I'm spending the night at Max's condo," she said.

"Uh huh," Alessandra said, holding up the compact and checking her makeup. Max was Courtney's boyfriend. He once said to her that she was hotter than Courtney, but he was too young for her. Besides, there was only one man who could please her . . .

The door opened to the garage, revealing a parked BMW, and then shut again. With Courtney gone, Alessandra picked herself up and headed to the oversized mirror, located in the foyer of her house.

Past the oversized living room with the seventy-inch television and accompanying surround sound system she went until she stood before the mirror. There, she reveled at the sight before her, which revealed a gorgeous woman with only the tiniest amount of work done. She was so hot, she thought, running her hands through her blonde highlighted hair.

It was noon, and thinking it best to begin her day, she thought of all the things she had to do. She was a socialite prominent in the DC scene after all. Let's see, she thought. Oh yeah, and her spirits flagged. She had to have lunch with that _bitch_ Brianne. She didn't have a choice, though. Brianne was her friend, and it's not like she had that many . . .

Her thoughts ran to other things on her to do list including shopping at Bethesda, and then, she remembered something—something very important.

She sighed heavily and then went back to the kitchen towards the pantry, the size of a walk-in closet. Grabbing a loaf of bread and a jug of water, she headed back to the living room, in an out of the way corner under the staircase.

Alessandra pulled on a railing known only to her and a secret door opened to a set of stairs that descended down into darkness. A moan came from deep in the basement.

Ignoring the sound, Alessandra held the items in hand and went down the stairs. This wasn't her most favorite thing to do, but it had to be done.

At the bottom of the stairs, darkness pervaded the basement with only the barest hint of light from a single fluorescent bulb that was too small for such a large room. She had to cover her nose at the unsanitary smells that came from here.

She looked around at the place. Yup, they're still here, she thought, feeling slightly disappointed.

In her basement, seemingly a world away from the luxury of her house above, three people in chains, one on the floor, the other against the wall, and the other sitting down, his back against the wall, were imprisoned in her basement. The one on the floor coughed slightly.

Having had enough, Alessandra threw the loaf of organic bread, sourced locally, onto the floor, followed by the jug of water that thudded on the ground.

They don't deserve this, she thought, disgusted that these people lived in her house. Brushing her hands from a job well done, Alessandra headed back up the stairs. Oh all the good that she does, she thought leaving the darkness of the basement behind and into the light where she belonged.

•••

 _WALDORF ASTORIA_ _  
_ _NEW YORK CITY_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 24, 2012_

Up on the twenty-fourth floor of the Waldorf, the machinery of State whirled. Every department and sub-department of State held an outpost converted from each of the luxury rooms of the hotel, of which the staff helpfully removed the furniture: the most prominent being the bed where only the headstand, bolted onto the wall, remained.

All throughout the twenty-fourth floor, called the secure floor from Hillary and the DSS's judgment because it had been cleared of any danger, the men and women of the Foreign Service worked diligently in preparation for the UN General Assembly. The whole world was coming to New York, and State was there.

Hillary was in her makeshift office, sitting at a desk, supplied generously by the Waldorf staff, and reading the briefings sent from all over the State Department both here in New York and back in "The Building," the colloquial name for the Harry S. Truman State Department Building back in Washington.

Jake, with tablet computers in hand, stood before Hillary as she read reports on her desk. A picture of Bill as well as Chelsea and her husband Mark graced her makeshift workspace. Unlike other hotel rooms, the Waldorf's rooms were more like residences with a living room, kitchen, and master suite included, which they used to a great extent to convert into a working office.

"Any progress, Jake?" she asked, looking up.

Jake Sullivan shook his head, disappointed. "Not yet," he said. With his slightly ill-fitting suit, he looked younger than his thirty-something years. "It's encrypted," he added. "I sent it to DSS, but I haven't gotten anything back yet, though I've been trying to break it myself." His shoulders sagged a bit. "Not much luck either."

Hillary thought as much. If anyone can break the code, though, it would be the people in the DSS back in "The Building." "Well, keep me updated," she said as she closed The Book, which was actually more like a binder, filled with classified material on world leaders, this time on Libyan President Mohammed Magariaf.

The door to her makeshift office opened, and Cheryl, wearing a black coat, stepped in. "Capricia says they're ready," her African American chief of staff said huskily, referring to the Chief of Protocol, Capricia Miller. Capricia was once her Social Secretary when she was First Lady and now served the State Department making sure the right amount of detail welcomed their foreign guests to the Waldorf and elsewhere. "The Libyan delegation will be at the bi-lat room any minute," Cheryl added.

The bi-lat room was where Hillary, in her official position and cover as Secretary of State, hosted foreign heads of state while they were in New York. It was of course, another converted hotel room the Waldorf generously provided for them.

Hillary acknowledged Cheryl and rose from her desk.

"Wait," Jake said. "What about my tech briefing?"

Hillary stopped. She had forgotten about it. They were already running late, an unfortunate trait of hers and Bill's so much so that her detractors called her time "Clinton Standard Time." Never an opportunity wasted for criticism, she thought bitterly. Some days the criticism could really get to her.

"We don't have time," Cheryl said.

Hillary held up her hand at Cheryl. She supposed she could squeeze this in. Besides, she wasn't looking forward to meeting the Libyan president anyways, who, of course, knew nothing about the clandestine nature of the Benghazi incident. They've only fed him the official cover story that they've unfortunately told the American people.

Jake beamed a bit; pulled out a tablet, with the initials "HRC" in gold lettering on the dark synthetic leather cover; and handed it to her.

Hillary took the device, and upon opening the cover, the screen displayed a pantsuit. The words "EVERGREEN CLASS BATTLE PANTSUIT" was scrawled at the top while off to the right side, the Hillary 2008 campaign logo was emblazoned on it. "As you can see," he said. "We've added some new enhancements to your wardrobe."

Hillary rather liked the design with its stylish lapels, but she focused, knowing that in her line of work, her pantsuit had to be functional as well as fashionable. "Magnetic shoes," Jake said, pressing on his own tablet. The screen zoomed in to the shoes of the pantsuit, and as the shoes became prominent, several pointers appeared detailing the various features of the low-heeled pumps. "For scaling walls or sneaking into buildings."

She wondered when she would ever use it, but it was nice knowing.

Jake tapped on the screen, which went to a close-up of the cuffs of the pantsuit, both front and back view, as another set of pointers detailed its features. "Your cuffs come equipped with GPS sleeve buttons to track your location anywhere on the globe," he said. "As well as a built-in grappling hook. Just press down on the bottom of the right cuff and fire away." Then, the screen zoomed back to the pantsuit, which turned to a backwards view of the whole pantsuit and to her surprise a focus on the backside with accompanying pointers. "And um," Jake said, slightly embarrassed. "Extra padding in the hindquarters area—ahem—to, um, hide the contours of your gun should the, ah, need arise."

It took for a moment to realize what that entailed, but it was a good idea. A visible gun bulge would be hard to explain. Still, she cringed at the words extra padding on her backside. She wasn't in her twenties anymore!

Looking as if he was glad to be moving on, Jake tapped on his screen, which caused her screen to darken. "Great," Hillary said, putting her own tablet down on the desk. Off to her side, Cheryl looked relieved the briefing was over.

Hillary took a step towards Cheryl, but Jake spoke up again. "One last thing," he said. Quickly, he reached back, pulled out a gun from the back waistline of his trousers, and held it, barrel up, in the air. Hillary noticed it was the standard issue model for all DSS agents.

"A new SIG Sauer smart gun model," Jake said, almost proud, and then gave it over to her. "With new gun safety measures."

Hillary took it in her hand and proceeded to point and test her new weapon, feeling the grip and the trigger in hand. It felt right, not too heavy and not too light either.

Jake stepped off to the side, seeing the weapon in his boss's hands. "It's tailored to your handprint using the latest in biometric technology."

Hillary looked at her gun and then back at Jake. "Meaning?"

"Only you can fire the gun," Jake explained. "It responds only to your handprint."

Impressed, Hillary peered at her new gun. As a supporter of common sense gun legislation, she supported such measures to make guns safer and away from the hands of those who could misuse it, especially children. Deciding to keep it, she put the gun away into her shoulder holster. "Alright, everyone," she said to her aides. "Let's move."

Both Jake and Cheryl nodded and Hillary followed them out the door to head up to the thirty-fourth floor of the Waldorf and meet with the newly-elected Libyan president, Mohammed Magariaf.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 _PARK AVENUE, MANHATTAN_ _  
_ _NEW YORK CITY_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 24, 2012_

The taxi wound its way down Park Avenue, passing by the dark skyscraper canyon of Manhattan. Huma sat in the back of the cab staring out the window. New York at night always had a mystical quality about it, and at night, it seemed New York was a wholly different city.

She had just left the Waldorf Astoria, another workday having ended, and now, she headed home to her infant son and her husband, Anthony . . .

Huma sank deeper into the leather seating of the cab. The digital taximeter on the dashboard quietly upped her fare while the cab driver, a Pakistani man, kept to himself, focused only on the road. The taxi cab itself was quiet and smooth, part of the new fleet of hybrid vehicles that Mayor Bloomberg instituted in the city. The humming, almost soothing, drone of the engine didn't quiet her mind however.

She should have told Hillary, she chided herself. It was at the tip of her tongue back at the Sheraton, but she couldn't bring herself to tell of what was supposed to be her secret mission. The President ordered not to tell anyone of her task but to not tell her boss? It seemed like a betrayal.

A mole, though? Huma asked herself. In Hillaryland? That sounded crazy. No one in their team would willingly help out terrorists. Republicans were one thing. They could be useful at times but not terrorists. Not America's enemies.

Yet, the President had his orders.

Grand Central Station, the classical Beaux Arts building with its Corinthian columns and limestone edifice, passed by as the taxi drove on, this time on the elevated Park Avenue Viaduct.

Might as well get started, Huma thought. She'd been putting it off long enough. Huma took out her BlackBerry from her Prada handbag. The tiny LED screen lit up, and she pressed on Cheryl's name.

The screen dinged back. " _Hey Huma,"_ the message read.

Typing on the QWERTY keyboard, she wrote, " _Got a minute?"_

" _Sure :),"_

Huma breathed in. She wasn't quite sure what to ask, but before she could type back, Cheryl sent another text message.

" _Capricia was a mad woman today, haha. You should have seen her run around the bi-lat room before the meeting with Hamid Karzai. She noticed we had the wrong flag!"_

Normally, Huma would find that anecdote about Capricia Marshall, the US Chief of Protocol, funny, but the pressure of her mission weighed her down.

" _Yeah, that was funny,"_ she typed back, but she wasn't laughing when she sent the message back from the taxi. A honk sounded from a passing car.

" _Hey,"_ she quickly texted before Cheryl could send out another message. " _Have you,"_ she stopped typing for a moment before she continued, " _seen any suspicious activity lately?"_

For a moment, there was no reply, only the blinking cursor line on the LED screen. Then, it dinged again.

" _What do you mean?"_

Huma decided she didn't have the heart for this. This was even harder than fighting terrorists. " _Never mind,"_ she wrote back. " _Just too tired, I think. Hey, I'm at my apartment building. I'll talk to you later."_

She shut off the phone before Cheryl could reply. Out the taxi window, skyscrapers passed by, not at all close to her home. Huma sighed. Not exactly crack spy work, she thought. Against her will, a trickle of doubt pressed into her thoughts.

Maybe Cheryl's the mole . . .

She shook her head as a flood of guilt came to her. That's crazy, she thought, and a little part of herself was mad that she could think of such a thing. This business could make anyone paranoid.

Huma looked back at the back window of the cab towards the Waldorf Astoria she had just left. President Obama, himself, was staying in the presidential suite in preparation for the yearly General Assembly at the UN.

There's no mole, she thought, as the cab slowly rode away from the famed hotel. There must be some sort of mistake. No one at Hillaryland would do such a thing, no one is a traitor.

"Almost there, miss," the cab driver said, his bushy eyes looking at the rear-view mirror of the vehicle.

Huma turned back around, and sure enough, her apartment building in Park Avenue South, a limestone pre-war building, rose into view in the distance, the streetlamps casting its light on the stately building.

"Thank you," she said to the Pakistani cabbie, and she situated herself once more in the seat. As the taxi cab came closer and closer, however, her BlackBerry vibrated, signaling a call.

 _Bzzzt Bzzzt_

Huma picked up the phone and tapped the LED screen. It wasn't a call, however. It was a text message . . . from someone she didn't know.

1 TEXT MESSAGE FROM nwoguy771, it read.

Something about the message didn't feel right, but she pressed on the screen anyways.

" _U looking for the mole? I have information. Txt me back if interested."_

As Huma held the BlackBerry, the screen lit up the dark cabbie inside as the vehicle continued to move towards her apartment building.

•••

 _CHAPPAQUA, NEW YORK_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 24, 2012_

In her stately suburban home of Chappaqua, Hillary read by lamplight at her desk. She was in the third floor study of her home, furnished with bookcases and an antique mahogany desk where she'd spent many nights reading and studying the issues and mission briefings of the day. Outside, the rolling fields and hills of her estate, cordoned off by a whitewashed wooden gate, lay quiet, not at all unusual in the quaint community of Chappaqua in Westchester County just outside of New York City.

A delicately woven rug, brought over from Arkansas, rested at her feet as "The Book," a spiral-bound binder, spread open on her desk. The various departments and sub-departments of State sent her these reports every day detailing the most minute of details regarding the foreign relations of the United States. This time, the pages spoke of Greece and a profile of that country's foreign minister, Dimitri Avramopoulos. A picture of an elderly silver-haired gentlemen looked back at her from the pages of the document as it read:

 _. . . Greece, still reeling from the Euro crisis and subsequent bailout by the European powers,_ The Book read, _is sensitive to her position in the EU and the world stage, and the Secretary should be mindful of Greek pride in this situation. While the crisis in Europe is lessening, Greece still shares—_

Hillary pushed The Book away from her and pinched the bridge of her nose. Sometimes, when she's read too much, she can get a condition sort of like vertigo, putting her in danger of headaches. An occupational hazard for a Secretary of State where reports never seem to cease from "The Building" back in Washington or in case of this week, the mini-State Department at the Waldorf.

That wasn't the only source of her worries. The ongoing mission on Benghazi was never far from her mind. There hadn't been much progress the last few days, and the implications of failure was stark. A HAARP weather array, she thought, in the hands of terrorists and madmen . . .

 _Bzzzt Bzzzt_

Hillary turned to the BlackBerry resting beside The Book. It rumbled on the desk as it continued to vibrate.

 _Bzzzt Bzzzt_

She quickly picked it up, and Jake answered on the other end of the phone. "Sorry for the interruption," he said, a bit winded as though by excitement. "We've cracked it."

Hillary stood up with the phone at her ear. "What'd you find?" The past weekend and all this past day, she'd asked about the encrypted files pilfered from the Muslim Brotherhood headquarters in Cairo, and now, she was going to get her answer.

"Not much, really," Jake said as she made her way to the window nook, revealing a view of the manicured grounds of Chappaqua including a swimming pool and forested trails. Much to her disappointment, it had not received much use these past few years where she'd longed to do swimming exercises. She hadn't done much exercise at all if she was honest . . . to disastrous consequences.

"Mostly correspondences between the various parts of the party machinery in Egypt," Jake continued. "Mundane stuff."

"Oh," Hillary said, sounding slightly disappointed. Jake wouldn't be calling her, she told herself, if he didn't have any news to share with her.

Picking up on her disappointment, Jake spoke quickly. "We did find a databank of aliases, mainly of #2." She pressed her ear closer to the phone as though that would make the information come quicker.

"Get this," he added. "He's used these aliases in passports to enter the United States. We already have copies of them."

Hillary wasn't sure she heard right. "What?" she said incredulously. Questions whirred in her mind not the least of which was how one of the world's most wanted terrorists visited the US under their noses.

"The odd thing was," Jake said, "he didn't visit many parts of the US or several for that matter . . . #2 only visited Washington, DC, well actually in the DC area."

She didn't quite get what Jake was leading up to. It seemed odd a terrorist mastermind would focus on the DC suburbs as opposed to the city itself unless, of course, he planned to target the Pentagon or the CIA in Langley.

"His itinerary stated he came to visit just one place, a single address in Chevy Chase," Jake said.

Chevy Chase? she asked herself. Not exactly a haven for terrorists and terrorist sympathizers. It was a small town, highly affluent in the Maryland side of DC. "Who are these people?"

A rustle of papers could be heard on Jake's side of the phone. "That's the thing," he said. "We ran a background check. House belongs to a Mr. and Mrs. James. Two kids. They seem to be a regular wealthy household to me."

"Any business ties to the Middle East," she asked. "Religious conversion?"

"None," Jake said, stumped. "Whoever these people are. They're like a typical American family. Two kids, a dog, a 401K account."

Hillary walked over to the middle of the study, letting Jake continue. "There should be no reason why #2 would meet with these people," he said. "None at all."

•••

Just after midnight, the taxi pulled up to Huma's Park Avenue South apartment building. Though the streetlamps gave off some light, the sidewalk was mostly dark with only a few lights on in the building's individual apartment units. A single pedestrian walked by the apartment building, his muffled footsteps echoing in the night.

Huma paid her fare and stepped out of the cab, which began to pull away up the quiet streets. She looked up at the apartment building, its limestone exterior darkened by the night. This was her home ever since they moved away from Forest Hills shortly after Anthony's . . .

Only a year ago, Anthony had his sexting scandal. She didn't know why he sexted or why he needed to. She was coming back from a State trip overseas when she heard the news and his subsequent resignation from Congress. It was a difficult time, but all she knew was that she loved him and that . . . she would never stop loving him.

She made her way through the tiled lobby of her Park Avenue apartment building, giving it the air of Victorian charm, and then up the elevator towards the twelfth floor, and soon, she faced the door into her home. She fumbled for the keys inside her Prada handbag. She didn't want to ring the doorbell, they're probably asleep at this time.

At last, she managed to find the keys. The door creaked quietly, and inside, the apartment was dark with only the merest light from outside glowing from the closed blinds. Her State Department salary by itself couldn't have made them afford the apartment, but her work for the DSS helped supplement their income.

Their living room and kitchen combined into one open space and would have opened to the New York skyline had it not been for the blinds. Contrasting with the prewar pedigree of the building, their apartment looked modern and stylish with the latest in appliances, kitchen cabinetry, and electronics like the flat screen television that took prominence in the living room.

She put her handbag down on a side table and quietly began removing her shoes. She'd somehow not noticed her aching feet all this time, but she felt them now. Had to remain quiet, though. Wouldn't want to wake—

The lights turned on, and at the end of the hallway that led into the living quarters, Anthony Weiner, former Congressman of a predominantly Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, stood with his hand on the light switch and squinting from the emerged light. Wearing a nightshirt and shorts, the handsome former Congressman's eyes lit up upon seeing his wife.

"Hey," he said to her.

She stopped, half hobbling, her hand in the middle of removing her right shoe. Her contorted position would be humorous, but Anthony didn't laugh. "Hey," she said back, finally removing the last of her Hermés heeled pumps. Seeing him again, it was worth it. Sometimes with her job at State and the DSS, she wouldn't see him for days at a time. Huma began to speak, but Anthony already knew who she was talking about.

"Sleeping," he interrupted, referring to their one-year-old son. He came towards her, scratching the back of his neck, and then gestured towards their dining table where leftover Vietnamese food lay, a chopstick rested by one of the Vietnamese containers. "Takeout," he said, "I, um, thought you might be—"

She didn't let him continue, she only hugged her husband, the man she loved.

•••

 _WALDORF ASTORIA_ _  
_ _NEW YORK CITY_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 25, 2012_

Was he making the right decision? Obama thought, holding a glass of Scotch in his hand. Beyond the window, the Manhattan skyline lay before him, some taller than the Waldorf, others shorter, but all seemed to deflect to his location. Or was he only kidding himself?

It had been four years since he was elected president with another election coming up. The race had been fairly competitive, though if he played his cards right, he would be set for victory in November. The Benghazi affair had been distracting him in his contest with Mitt Romney especially now that he had to make his decision.

"Hillary, forgive me," he said quietly to himself.

Just then, caressing arms slipped in from behind. First Lady Michelle Obama embraced him and kissed his shoulder. "Come to bed, Barack," she said, laying her head gently on the back of his head. The beautiful First Lady wore a dark night shirt, accentuating her striking figure.

"I wish I could," he said darkly, still staring out at New York, the capital of the world. "How will history judge me," he asked her, almost bitterly, as he continued to look out the window. "For what I've done and . . . what I'm about to do."

Michelle raised her head and said nothing at first. "Barack," she said, turning him around to face her. There, on his wife's alluring face, it seemed she still held the hope and optimism that the presidency had stolen from him.

"History can wait," she finished. Then, she kissed him, and their lips touched for what seemed like an eternity.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

 _BUSHWICK, BROOKLYN_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _SEPTEMBER 27, 2012_

Where is he? Hillary Clinton thought as she waited in a dark alleyway. She was in Bushwick, still a working class area in Brooklyn, though it had been experiencing some gentrification lately. Tenements and low rise buildings surrounded the area, some in disrepair or tagged with graffiti while others inhabited by young bearded people or "hipsters" as the kids called them these days. Across from her, a small bodega frequented by immigrants inhabited the bottom floor of a tenement while a wind blew a plastic bag from the street onto the sidewalk. Over the horizon, the Manhattan skyline rose in the distance, seemingly like an otherworld compared to the low rise nature of this neighborhood.

She was supposed to be at the Waldorf this afternoon delivering remarks at the Connecting the Americas 2022 Ministerial, but there was more pressing work to be done. Her absence at the event, however, won't be missed. Philippe already sent her body double, the other Hillary, to head the event assuring that her foreign counterparts and other dignitaries would be none the wiser. Hillary scanned the area again, but only a group of Hasidic Jewish men, in the Rekel frock coat and Borsalino hat of their faith, walked past, talking and conversing amongst themselves in Yiddish.

Still no sign of him, she thought. Behind her, however, a hand reached out and grabbed her around the mouth. She was about to cry out as she was dragged deeper into the alleyway and pressed against the brick tenement wall, but then, she saw him. A man placed his finger to his lips. "Shh," he said, "It's me,"

Hillary's heartbeat calmed down after seeing that her informant was finally here. He was David Brock, and the handsome man, whose once youthful looking dark head of hair was now a shock of silver, stared back at her with heavy eyes. She knew him once as a young man, an enemy to be exact. Once an agent of the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy, a radical group of plutocrats she defeated back during her husband's presidency, he had turned over a new leaf. He vowed to her he would atone for his dark past but neither did he completely rid himself of his dark methods . . .

"I have what you asked for," Brock said, taking out a manila folder from his suit. Still a creature of the 90s, her "oppo" researcher could not get out of the habit of the use of paper.

Hillary opened the folder to reveal a profile glamour shot of an aging but still pretty woman. "Alessandra James," he explained. "Forty-one, two kids," He glanced from side to side to make sure no one was listening in. "Lives in a tony suburb, husband is a defense contractor."

Hillary rifled through the large black and white photographs depicting Alessandra in various DC social hotspots, dancing in soirées and fundraisers, smiling in photographs with politicians including one with the junior Senator from New York and her successor in the Senate, Kirsten Gillibrand. The two blonde women, both smiled for the cameras except Alessandra wore a designer dress while Sen. Gillibrand wore a women's business suit consisting of a jacket and a skirt. "As you can see," Brock continued, "Alessandra's eager to climb the social ladder, even has her own Twitter hashtag."

The next page she turned to showed a printout of a Twitter feed. All the Twitter posts had a glamour shot of Alessandra looking seductively at the camera and most ended with #igetwhatiwant.

"But as you know," Brock said, reaching over and shifting over to another picture. "Everyone has their secrets."

The new page Brock turned to was another black and white picture taken from what appeared to be a second-story window, showing a handsome Middle Eastern man in a Western style suit walking from the driveway to the front door. "A snoopy neighbor took this picture."

"#2," Hillary said, instantly recognizing the man from the White House briefing. A part of her was disappointed that their suspicions were confirmed. She turned her attention back to Brock. "Why invite this man?" she asked him. "Why involve herself with a terrorist."

"That," Brock said, shaking his head. "I don't know."

Hillary took it all in and promptly thought of their next course of action. They couldn't raid her house; that would only bring undue attention to Alessandra and scare off #2. They needed to capture him when he made another rendezvous to that house—if he decided to come back. They could arrest her instead and bring her in for questioning, but something told her that wasn't the right course of action either.

One thing she did know, they needed to act fast. Dee Romney and #2 were out there, and they had the HAARP array. "We need more evidence," she said to him.

Brock smirked at her, and a gleam came into his eyes. "I have just the plan," he said. Then, he leaned in close. "Socialite that she is. Guess who's coming to a State Department fundraiser next week."

•••

 _HARRY S. TRUMAN FEDERAL BUILDING_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 6, 2012_

Men in tuxedos and women in elegant dresses milled about the Benjamin Franklin Room on the eighth floor of the State Department building. Unlike much of the "The Building," as the Harry S. Truman building was colloquially called, the Benjamin Franklin room, part of a host of rooms called the Diplomatic Reception Rooms, eschewed the modernist décor of much of the State Department headquarters. On the eighth floor, the Benjamin Franklin Room, like the rest of the Diplomatic Reception Rooms, had a much more colonial aesthetic with antique furniture and decoration. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and Corinthian columns lined the long walls of the room. Guests were seated amongst the white linen draped tables while in the middle of the room with windows overlooking the National Mall, a lectern and a row of seats atop a temporary dais acted as the centerpiece. A large banner hung above read "Patrons of Diplomacy," and a rendition of Jean-Joseph Mouret's "Rondeau" played in the background by a string quartet.

Hillary was not yet at the host dais. She wore a navy blue gown designed by Oscar de la Renta who mercifully made sure to tactfully hide her ankles, a feature that brought her criticism before. Former Secretaries of State Colin Powell and Madeleine Albright conversed with others in the event, and she was thankful. She had other business to attend to. A glass of Chardonnay swirled in her hand as she looked out for the arrival of their "special guest," the socialite known as Alessandra James.

"No target in sight," Cheryl, in a svelte black dress, whispered beside her. Hillary scanned the room. Her Chief of Staff was not mistaken, only finding the low murmurs of conversation and mingling of her guests. Called the "Patrons of Diplomacy" event, this was supposed to be a fundraiser for the upkeep of the Diplomatic Reception Rooms where treasures from America's past, most from the Revolutionary War period, were housed. The Diplomatic Reception Rooms were often called "Washington, DC's best kept secret," and Hillary guessed they were right, officially of course.

" _I can't find her either,"_ Jake's voice said in her earpiece. He was posted by the entrance of the Benjamin Franklin Room, a finger surreptitiously pressed to his ear as well as wearing a snappy tuxedo like the other gentlemen invited to the event.

"Fashionably late most likely," Cheryl said, not hiding her disgust.

"Keep an eye out for her," Hillary whispered to both of them. An elderly gentleman and his wife passed by, and she smiled at the both of them.

Former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, in a black military coat and knee-high boots, made her way towards her, and Hillary was about to acknowledge Condi, but then Jake spoke up, catching her attention.

" _Wait, wait,"_ Jake said, in muffled excitement. " _She's here, I repeat, she's here."_

At the entrance of the Benjamin Franklin room, the aging but still beautiful woman, strode into the room. In a glittering white gown, no doubt designer wear, she cast about the room as if she was the guest of honor, her blonde tresses flowing down to her shoulder.

Before Condi could get to her, Hillary narrowed her eyes at the newly arrived socialite across the room. Alessandra James was here.

•••

 _CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 6, 2012_

"She's still in there!"

Philippe Reines and Huma Abedin, both wearing black turtlenecks and pants, the better to blend in with the night, watched from inside the SUV they rented earlier in the day. They were in a quiet residential street keeping a lookout for any sign of movement at Alessandra James' mansion. It was a wealthy area, though McMansions dotted much of the neighborhood including Alessandra's home. Much to their chagrin, a light still stayed on in the living room of Alessandra's limestone McMansion. "It's Friday night," Philippe continued. "She should be out."

"Maybe she's a homebody," Huma said. A black hard plastic case rested at her feet. She didn't much like the stuffiness that came with staying inside vehicles for too long, but she had to concentrate.

"You've read her profile," Philippe replied. "The daughter is popular. She can't be a homebody—"

Headlights beamed onto the road, and a Jeep suddenly pulled up to the side of the McMansion. A strapping young man in a hoodie sat in the driver's seat, music blaring.

 _HONK HONK_

The young man honked on the steering wheel once more. The front door opened, and a teenage girl ran out of the house towards the newly arrived Jeep, giggling as she did so.

Huma sat up in her seat on the passenger side knowing that it was almost time to act. Close by, Alessandra's daughter went inside the Jeep and proceeded to French kiss her boyfriend. "Haha," she said after their short make out session. "I thought you'd never come."

She couldn't quite hear what the boy said next, but Alessandra's daughter squealed with laughter. They both yelled out obnoxiously, and the boyfriend started the Jeep and pulled it out onto the road.

They knew it was go time.

Philippe and Huma got out of their rented SUV and then hastily made their way towards the front door. "What are we looking for again?" Philippe asked.

"Not really sure," Huma replied, the hard plastic case in hand. "Pictures, Files. Anything incriminating."

At last, they made it to the front door. Huma kneeled down and placed the case on the ground. Opening it, she retrieved the cell jammer, a small handheld device with an antenna on top. The DSS supplied this device, and pressing the button, Huma knew whatever home alarm system Alessandra had would be disabled. The cell jammer pulsed red, and then satisfied, she put it down and picked up another object from her case.

A lock pick.

She'd done this many times before. Continuing to kneel down, she put the pick into the turnkey.

"Hurry up, will you?" Philippe said, glancing from side to side, keeping on the lookout. "I'm not cut out for this."

"Just a bit more . . ."

 _CLICK_

The door went ajar, and Huma breathed a sigh of relief.

Philippe went inside, and she followed him into the darkened living room. It had an open floorplan, and the tiniest glimmer of moonlight revealed a fairly typical room. Couches facing a flat screen TV, wood flooring, and off in the corner, a quarter-turn staircase led up to the second floor. "That was easy," Philippe said as he reached over to the light switch.

The lights turned on, and more of the living room came into view. The far end of the room led into the dining room as well as the kitchen, away from view. A lighted ceiling fan hung from the ceiling, but there was something else . . .

Right in front of them, a Doberman growled and bared its teeth. It stood on all fours with menace in its eyes.

Huma stood rooted on the spot. A Doberman? she thought frantically. She didn't remember anything about a dog. Whether she liked it or not, however, the beast was about to attack.

Barking, it charged at her, no doubt ready to lunge at any moment. She couldn't do much of anything except to shield herself with her arms. Any moment now, she thought, the dog would maul her, its hot breath closing in . . .

A spray sounded.

 _THUD_

It took a moment, but when nothing happened, Huma peeked out from her protective stance. Philippe smirked at her, a small spray bottle in his hand. In front of her, the Doberman, who moments ago was ready to attack, now lay sprawled on the wood floor, fast asleep.

There wasn't much need to explain as evidenced by the knock out spray in Philippe's hand. "Like I said," he bragged. "Easy."

•••

Hillary cackled with laughter as the Assistant Secretary of State for South and Central Asian Affairs, Robert O. Blake Jr. nervously laughed back, clearly not sure why his joke was such a hit. Around them, the Patrons of Diplomacy event continued without a hitch. Guests and dignitaries conversed with themselves while waiters, in formal wear, walked amongst them carrying trays of either hors d'oeuvres or drinks such as shrimp cocktail or Spanish ham with tomato and basil on flatbread or, Hillary's favorite, tall glasses of champagne.

The Assistant Secretary of State's expression then turned grave. "On a serious matter, Madame Secretary," the brown haired State department employee said. "There've been reports of trouble in Kashmir. After Benghazi, we have to watch out for anything."

Hillary, finished with her cackle, immediately wondered whether she overdid it. "I assure you, Mr. Assistant Secretary," she replied even as she kept a close eye on Alessandra in the distance. She had been waiting for her chance to engage the socialite, but she always seemed to be in conversation as well as always seeming to have a glass in hand. At the moment, Alessandra playfully hit the chest of a man in a slick tuxedo, who eyed her back with interest. The man's wife seemed to not have as good a time as the other two. "I'll keep the relations of India and Pakistan well in mind."

Far across, Hillary saw the man's wife take her husband away from Alessandra. She finally saw her move. "If you'll excuse me," she said, quickly moving away before she was dragged into another conversation.

She smiled at the various guests as she made her way through, careful not to engage anyone else in conversation. Ahead, Alessandra stood alone, looking around as if uncomfortable being by herself.

Hillary was ready too and hurried more, even bumping against a chair, but she kept going . . .

Two individuals stepped in the way, hindering her progress. Before her, an attractive bald man and a matronly older woman looked at Hillary excitedly but nervously. "Madame Secretary, Adam Parkhomenko," the bald man said as he reached out and shook Hillary's hand, who had no choice but to shake back.

"Allida Black," the matronly woman said.

"Um," Adam said and his eyes glanced to the side as if trying to remember something rehearsed. "We're from Ready for Hillary."

Recognizing the group, an unauthorized Super PAC, though quietly encouraged by her political allies, that advocated her run for the presidency in 2016, she held her breath, but she managed to keep her composure. "Well hello," she said as she smiled back at them. Keep eye contact, Hillary reminded herself. Show interest.

"We're big fans," Adam said. Allida beside him laughed nervously.

"We'd just like to say, we hope you run in 2016," she added. Their eyes looked upon her eagerly.

Hillary smiled demurely. She had her stock answer ready to go. "I'm flattered, but as you know, I'm out of politics," she replied. Once more, she glanced back at Alessandra, who still stood by herself, sipping on her champagne. "I thank you for your efforts," she said to them. "Excuse me."

As she expertly extricated herself, Adam and Allida looked back at her with stricken faces as if their world had been shattered.

" _Coast is clear,"_ Cheryl's voice said in her earpiece.

"Roger that," Hillary whispered back even as she made her way to Alessandra, who had finally noticed the Secretary of State heading towards her.

"Madame Secretary," she said, leaning forward for an air kiss.

"Hi!" she said back, mustering as much enthusiasm as she could. Their cheeks touched one after another followed by a "mwah," completing the air kiss. "Thank you for becoming a Patron of Diplomacy!"

"It's the least I could do . . ." Alessandra looked confused for a moment. "To do whatever a patron diplomat does." She then stood up taller as though she did something right and smiled back insincerely. "Always proud to help."

"And we're always proud to see concerned Americans such as yourself take a keen interest in preserving America's treasures," Hillary replied. She knew she had to turn the conversation around from these inanities. Underneath the eager exterior, she already knew from Brock's "oppo" research that Alessandra didn't try to meet contacts in the government out of altruism.

As she held her champagne in her hand, Alessandra's eyes turned cold. "I hope the Madame Secretary would keep in mind my _generous_ donation to your cause."

Hillary decided not to bother with the niceties and her smile vanished. "Let's get down to business," she said, leaning close. "I hear you're interested in procuring defense materials . . ."

•••

Philippe Reines threw his hands up in the air. "There's nothing in this whole house!" Around them, Alessandra's master bedroom was a flurry of opened cabinets, rummaged clothes, and spread out paper. Boxes piled up on the king sized bed, topped with comforter sheets.

Huma, bent down and searching the opened drawers of a dresser, tried to ignore Philippe's grousing. She knew something was here, her intuition told her so. Yet, the drawer she searched only contained things like Alessandra's jewelry or a set of cash. She felt slightly guilty that they were rummaging through someone's personal effects like this. She knew what that felt like.

"What are we going to tell Hillary?" Philippe cried out, sitting down on the bed and crossing his arms. "Maybe Brock was wrong."

She shook her head. "No," Huma said quietly. It was around here somewhere, she just knew it.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something. In the back of a drawer, a felt liner stuck up as though . . .

She reached in and pulled up the felt, moving the other items out of the way. Carefully, the felt opened up and Huma breathed in. There was something there.

Underneath, there was a piece of paper and she reached in with her hand.

Curious, Philippe stood back up from the bed and went towards Huma by the drawer cabinet. "What'd you find?"

"I don't know . . ." She grabbed the paper and then held it up to the light. Seeing it, Philippe looked at Huma worriedly.

The letters, made of what looked to be of papyrus, gleamed in the light as both Huma and Philippe stared up intently.

They were written in Arabic.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

 _BISTRO CAPITALE_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 9, 2012_

Huma looked around expectantly as she sat in a corner booth of Bistro Capitale. The trendy DC hotspot was just the type of place Alessandra James would want to be seen, holding a view of busy Pennsylvania Avenue outside. Inside, the restaurant had a streamlined, contemporary aesthetic with modern light fixtures and light wood paneling on the walls. Warm light bathed the restaurant from the bank of windows facing the bustling sidewalk while the various young professionals at this lunch hour solidified its reputation as one of DC's trendiest restaurants.

Across from Huma, a couple eyed her surreptitiously, clearly recognizing her as Hillary's assistant, but she tried to not notice them and hoped they wouldn't disrupt her mission.

Last weekend, they had discovered letters in Alessandra's home. Being fluent in Arabic, she had told Philippe of the contents of the letters before taking photographs and spiriting away. The official translation from the Arabists back at "The Building," confirmed the same thing.

Love letters.

They were love letters. Apparently, #2 had a flair for the poetic, and in those letters, he expressed his undying love for her. As to how they met or where, she didn't know, and now having figured out their torrid affair, they set up this meeting where hopefully, Alessandra will give up the whereabouts of #2.

" _Vanity Fair, do you read?"_ Hillary said, referring to Huma's code name. Her boss was back in "The Building" in the Hillaryland Ops room where they had set up shop for this mission.

She quietly pressed a finger to her ear. "I copy," she whispered back. Her Marc Jacobs tote bag rested beside her on the seat.

" _Good,"_ Philippe's mischievous voice chimed in. " _Because the target is heading in. Good luck, Huma. Operation Homing Beacon is a go!"_

Huma sat up in the leather seating of the corner booth in preparation for her "guest." She had earlier invited her to brunch in a text, and today was the day of the appointment.

The glass doors opened, and Alessandra sauntered in. Wearing a Saks Fifth Avenue low-cut blouse and skirt, the blonde housewife walked in as if everyone in the restaurant worked for her. Louis Vuitton purse in hand, large aviator glasses framed her face, concealing eyes that no doubt looked down upon the rest of the restaurant goers.

Huma waved at Alessandra and motioned to her with fake enthusiasm. She hoped it looked genuine. Noticing her, Alessandra had a smug expression on her face and then headed over. At last, they met.

"Glad to finally meet you!" Huma said as she gave her an air kiss on one cheek.

"Hillary mentioned you!" Alessandra said with a raised voice, making sure the rest of the restaurant could hear the name-drop even as they finished the air kiss.

"So sorry for being late," Alessandra continued as she sat down on her seat across from Huma's own corner booth seating. She removed her aviator glasses and put it into her purse, which she put right beside her close to the window. Huma inched closer in her seating, making herself comfortable, and smiled at her "friend," trying to act as interested as possible. "You know DC traffic," Alessandra finished. She made an eye-roll as though stating the obvious.

"Oh I know," Huma said, widening her eyes for effect. "I—"

"Like my jewelry?" Alessandra interrupted. She pushed her chest out to show off the necklace she wore, a clasped piece with a blue diamond at the center. "I bought it yesterday. Fifteen grand."

Huma peered over and bulged out her eyes, trying to seem impressed. "Oh, that's so lovely," she said.

A college-aged waiter came to their table and gave the two women the restaurant menus. The foldout menus displayed "Bistro Capitale" in fancy lettering with a delectable picture of fried chicken atop a fancy dish, which emphasized the restaurant's raison d'etre of American food with a French twist. "Welcome, ladies," the confident waiter said. "What drinks would you like this afternoon? Our drink special today is the Citrus Manhattan."

"I'll have that one," Alessandra said. "Make that two."

"Just spring water for me," Huma said.

The waiter nodded at both of them and then promptly left their table. As he did so, Alessandra checked him out especially his behind. "He's cute," she said to Huma. "And nice butt too."

"Oh," Huma said, quickly looking over at the departing waiter. She didn't disagree about the waiter's good looks, but she had her Anthony. "Totally."

Alessandra made a closed-mouth smile and then folded open the menu. Huma did the same. She'd been to this restaurant before with Anthony and her baby so she knew how good the food was although she knew she wasn't going to order. She had to focus on her mission.

"Everything looks so yummers," Alessandra said, reading through the menu.

Huma looked down, and on the menu, it displayed the various platters and entrees ready for order.

"What are you getting?" Alessandra asked.

"Um," Huma said, giving the menu another cursory look before folding it closed again. "I'm not that hungry," she replied and then gave her a closed-mouth smile of her own.

Alessandra stopped for a moment and then placed a hand over hers. "I understand," she said to her even as she patted her hand. "You're on a government salary," she finished, giving her a pitied look.

Huma only smiled back, trying to keep her composure in the situation.

The waiter finally arrived back to their table, carrying a tray with their drinks over his hand. "Here you go," he said, placing the drinks on the table. Huma took her glass of water, removed the top of the straw wrapper, and took a sip. The cool taste gave her something to concentrate on besides Alessandra. It calmed her down.

He then took a notepad from his waist and folded it open. "What can I get for you, ladies," he asked, pen in hand.

"I'll have the Frisée salad," she said, handing the menu over and staring confidently at Huma. "Nothing for her," she added.

The waiter glanced over at Huma, and she nodded back. "Good choice," he said, writing down the order. "It'll arrive shortly," he finished.

" _Hurry it along,"_ Hillary said in her earpiece as the waiter took away their menus and began to leave the table.

Huma tried not to act like she heard anything, but she knew she had to get down to business. "So," she said to Alessandra as she swirled the straw in her spring water. "I heard you had some special interests . . ."

Alessandra glanced at her for a moment and then raised her chin up.

"We can, of course," Huma added. "Reserve one for you. A, um, certain plane, ultra-exclusive of course."

The waiter returned and placed a basket of Bistro Capitale's famous complimentary French bread, its aroma wafting in the air.

After the waiter finished serving the bread, he grinned confidently at the women, but seeing that they ignored him, focusing on each other instead, his grin vanished. Rubbing the back of his neck as though hoping no one noticed, he left their table again.

Alessandra waited until the waiter was out of view before she spoke again. "Actually," she said as she moved the breadbasket off to the side. Huma took a sip of her spring water. "I already have one. I got it a week ago . . . from my own sources."

As she sipped, the water caught in the back of Huma's throat. "What?" she said, coughing. Some of the water from her glass spilled on the table. "What do you mean?"

Voices inside her earpiece erupted in panic.

" _Oh my God, Oh my God,"_ Philippe cried out.

" _What did she say?"_ Jake asked.

" _How'd she get one? No one's allowed to get one,"_ Cheryl said even as Hillary tried to shout over the raised voices.

" _Calm down, everybody. Calm down!"_

The blast of noise caused Huma to snap her head away adding another booming noise to her ear.

Alessandra looked at her oddly. "Something wrong?" she asked.

The booming noise receded in Huma's ear. "Nothing," she said. She wanted to brush her ear to clear the sound away, but she bore through the inconvenience. "It was, um, the water. It tasted funny."

"Alright," Alessandra said, shrugging. She then swirled her straw into her Citrus Manhattan. "So. . ." she said, looking at her keenly.

Huma suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. "So what?"

"You know . . ." A wily smile came to her lips. " _Anthony._ I saw what he texted." She glanced from side to side enjoying every moment of titillation. "You must be a _very_ satisfied woman."

Her skin flushed hot. She knew Alessandra talked about Anthony's sexting scandal a year ago where he sent some compromising pictures to several young women. His actions had real world consequences including being forced to resign his Congressional seat.

Huma gulped, and though she tried to maintain her calm, she got angry a bit. It was a private matter, and this woman had no right even as Alessandra waited for her to dish out the gossip. "I, uh," she stammered. "I, uh"

The waiter arrived holding a plate of the Frisée salad in hand. "Hello, ladies," he said to them as Alessandra eyed him annoyedly. He placed the salad in front of the socialite. "Anything else I can get for you?" he said, grinning once more and flashing his smile again.

"That's all," Alessandra said curtly. The waiter's smile vanished once more, and bending his head down in disappointment, he left them again.

" _Spike her food!"_ Philippe chimed in from the earpiece. " _You have benzodiazepines in your purse. I put it there!"_

" _Bring her in for questioning,"_ Hillary added.

Huma eyed Alessandra who had taken a forkful of her Frisée salad topped with lardons and creamy poached egg along with a vinaigrette on the side that rested on a square, blindingly white plate, and then, she went to her tote bag to check for the drug.

" _We've readied a call,"_ the Secretary of State continued. " _Arriving . . . now."_

Sure enough, from inside Alessandra's purse, the phone vibrated. "Excuse me," she said, placing her forkful of Frisée salad back on the plate and then turned to pick up the purse beside her.

Huma quickly grabbed the benzodiazepine powder and spread the drug over her food. The benzodiazepine scattered onto the Frisée salad.

Alessandra placed the purse onto her lap and took her phone out. "Who was it?" Huma asked as Alessandra checked her phone.

"I didn't recognize the number," Alessandra said, putting the phone back into her purse and placing her bag beside her once more. Huma smiled back, though she did make a quick glance over to Alessandra's now spiked salad. There, she thought.

At last, Alessandra ate a bite of her Frisée salad as Huma watched expectantly. "Mmmm," she said, closing her eyes. Her mouth crunched down as though savoring every morsel. A few more bites, Huma thought. Then the drug should take its effect.

"That was delicious," she said, and Huma raised her eyebrows in agreement.

Huma waited for her to stab another portion of the Frisée with her fork, but then, Alessandra put the fork down and then wiped her hands. "All done," she said.

"What?" Huma asked.

"On a diet," Alessandra said with smug satisfaction. "I gotta go," she finished and began to gather up her purse.

"You, you can't," Huma stammered, causing Alessandra to look back at her quizzically. Feeling suddenly on the spot, Huma quickly thought of an answer. "We—we just got here."

"Well, busy girl," she said, scooting out of her seat.

" _Don't let her leave,"_ Hillary said inside Huma's earpiece. " _I repeat, do not let her leave."_

"Wait," Huma said, reaching forwards. Alessandra, who had already gotten up from the corner booth seating and looked set to leave with her purse on her forearm, turned back to her. "How about we go shopping?" Huma added, trying to give the most sincere smile she could. It was the only thing, she could come up with. "My treat."

" _Good thinking, Huma,"_ Hillary said in the earpiece. " _Cheryl, get what they need."_

Alessandra tilted her head up as though thinking about it for a moment before turning her attention back to Huma. "Sure," she said, agreeing to her request. "Sounds like fun."

Huma breathed a sigh of relief. Now she had to improvise more, she decided.

They paid, and she followed Alessandra out of the restaurant. "Are you sure you can afford this?" the socialite asked as they passed through Bistro Capitale's patrons happily conversing and dining on their fare. "Anthony's not exactly employed, is he?"

She tried to keep her temper in check. "We do fine," she said back even as she opened the door to exit the restaurant.

They made it out to the sidewalk on famous Pennsylvania Avenue. Pedestrians strolled by the midrise buildings, and right next door, the concrete FBI Building loomed. Nearby, she knew the green lawns of the National Mall were close by.

Cheryl's husky voice came in through her earpiece. " _A vehicle's coming shortly . . ."_

As if on cue, a black sedan pulled up to the sidewalk. Alessandra seemed curious. "What year?" she asked.

Huma glanced at her, not knowing what she was talking about.

"The vehicle," Alessandra added. "What year?"

She thought for a moment. "2009?" she said, not entirely sure, causing Alessandra to sigh.

"I suppose," she said.

They entered the vehicle and both of them situated themselves in the comfortable leather seating. Dark-tinted windows obscured their forms from the outside world.

" _There's a new plan,"_ Hillary said once more in the earpiece. Huma smiled back at Alessandra.

"Downtown," she said to the driver, whom she knew was an undercover DSS agent.

Beside her, Alessandra took her iPhone from her purse and began texting.

" _Your vehicle will be involved in a car crash on F Street,"_ Hillary continued. " _In the tumult, undercover DSS agents posing as paramedics will load her into an ambulance and take her away. Brace yourself."_

The message cut off, and Huma readied herself even as the sedan pulled up off the road and began its trek up Pennsylvania Avenue.

They had turned and soon passed E Street, and she knew they only had another block to go.

"Look at that," Alessandra said. She had been drawn away from her texting and pointed to a storefront on her side of the rear window.

Huma looked over and saw a storefront. Mannequins stood frozen, and one of them held a handbag in the crook of its arm. Chanel by the looks of it, she thought.

"Oh my God, I have to have that purse," Alessandra squealed, and to Huma's horror, the socialite opened the car door and jumped onto the street.

"No, wait. Don't leave the—" Alessandra didn't listen and continued to head to the storefront. Huma quickly followed her out of the car and carefully crossed the busy street, watching out for oncoming vehicles. One came dangerously close and honked at her, but she soon joined the socialite on the sidewalk before the store where Alessandra gawked at the Chanel purse.

"That purse is too cute!" she said and then dragged Huma towards the store. "Come on! We'll shop till the morning comes!"

Huma let herself be dragged even while farther ahead, on F Street, a car slammed into the vehicle they had just left.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

 _SOMEWHERE IN THE PERUVIAN JUNGLE_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 12, 2012_

The airstrip was carved out of the Peruvian jungle, and along with the converted air control tower, the complex was now commandeered as a CIA black site prison, where America's enemies came to be forgotten. Once a clandestine drug cartel narco-airport, the Peruvian government allowed its use for the Americans whenever certain . . . matters had to be taken care of.

It was afternoon in the CIA black site prison. From the air, the surrounding jungle surrounded the converted airstrip as macaws and squalls squawked in the distance. The sun blazed in the sky, and on the runway, an American Boeing C-17 Globemaster cargo plane sat idle, having delivered a particularly sensitive prisoner earlier in the day.

Hillary Clinton led a group of guards through the dank concrete lined hallways of the converted airport control terminal. As water dripped into a puddle somewhere close by, her guards, Peruvian government agents in jungle fatigues, dragged their prisoner through the hallway, a burlap bag over her head. The prisoner was Alessandra James.

After Huma's unsuccessful mission, they commiserated amongst themselves back at the State Department. After a prolonged debate, they settled on a simple snatching job. In the middle of the night, she and Huma snatched Alessandra in a parking lot while she was out on the town in Chevy Chase.

A cell door opened, and Hillary went inside followed shortly by the two Peruvian guards and their prisoner. The interrogation room, a spartan concrete block, quickly filled with people, and as Hillary looked on, the guards forcibly sat Alessandra down onto a bare chair. A barrelful of water sat on the side of the room while only the sparest sheaths of sunlight came from two barred windows.

Hillary's blonde brows sweated, par for the course in Peru's merciless jungle.

"All is set, Señora Clinton," one of the guards said to her as soon as they finished their task. On the chair, Alessandra lolled about, no doubt still disoriented from the trip over. She's not in Chevy Chase anymore, Hillary thought with dark satisfaction, paraphrasing one of her favorite movies, _The Wizard of Oz._

She nodded to her guards, alerting them that they could leave.

"Si se puede!" the two guards said aloud.

"Si se puede!" Hillary said back. One of the guards looked back on their prisoner, a sneer on his face, even as they left the dank chamber.

At last, she was alone with Alessandra. Hillary stepped slowly forward towards her seated prisoner, bent down, and removed the burlap bag from the socialite's head, causing her to gasp after finally having some air to breathe.

"Welcome to Peru," Hillary said coldly.

"You psycho _bitch!"_ Alessandra cried out. "What did you do to me?!"

Hillary wasn't fazed. "We know all about you," she said. "We know what you've done, and we know about your affair."

Alessandra didn't reply. She only looked back coldly, dried streaks of blood on her lips.

"You'll tell us everything you know," Hillary said as though it was a given, as though all resistance was irrelevant. Alessandra only scoffed back and looked away from her.

She knew this would happen. Prisoners were rarely cooperative . . . at least in the beginning. "I've gotten authorization . . . to do what's necessary in order for you to comply." She glanced over to the rusted barrel, filled to the brim with water.

Alessandra once more didn't reply. She continued to look away, refusing to make eye contact.

Hillary gazed down, disappointed. It would be a lot easier, she thought with resignation, if they would just cooperate. "I was hoping it didn't come to this . . ."

Making one last glance at the barrel of water, she went towards Alessandra, but something happened, causing her to stumble to the side.

 _BOOM_

Somewhere far away, in another part of the complex, an explosion suddenly rocked the prison, and righting herself, Hillary gazed around, confused. What was that? she thought.

Seated on the chair, Alessandra had a malicious smile on her face.

The complex shook again. There was another explosion far away.

Worried, she made her way to the intercom and pressed on the call button. "Pedro," she scolded. "What's going on?!"

" _I do not know, Señora Clinton,"_ Pedro said back, panicked. " _The prisoners, they've— AGHHHHH!"_ On the other end, another explosion sounded, no doubt claiming the life of her loyal guard. Hillary gazed back, stricken eyes on the intercom panel.

Just then, laughter sounded in the dank cell, a malicious laughter like that of someone reveling in another's misfortune. Hillary turned. It was Alessandra, and seated in the chair, she continued her macabre laugher. "Wasn't expecting that, were you, Hillary!" she screeched.

She gulped. For the first time in quite some time, she didn't know what would happen next. The dank cell shook again, forcing her to fall back onto the wall and hang onto the intercom panel for support. Her eyes careened around the cell, looking for any sign of the cause for the explosions. Were they under attack? she thought wildly. That was impossible, they were in—

"There's more surprises where that came from," Alessandra said, and Hillary caught her breath at what she saw before her.

Alessandra rose from her chair and then turned menacingly towards Hillary.

With a piercing scream, Alessandra charged at her, spraying mace the entire way.

•••

 _LINCOLN MEMORIAL_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 15, 2012_

The solitary figure of Abraham Lincoln, seated in its marble seat, gazed out onto the National Mall where in the distance, the sun shone down on the Washington Monument, rising its obelisk form into the skyline of the nation's capital.

Huma Abedin, in a Nordstrom coat, stayed near the shadows in the far corner of the Lincoln Memorial, a marble neoclassical structure, away from the Doric columns. She crossed her arms as she awaited someone even as a few tourists gawked at the marble statue of America's sixteenth president.

I shouldn't have come, Huma thought, but she knew her curiosity got the best of her. Today was the day she was supposed to meet her mysterious informant, the one who texted her a few weeks ago in New York. She eyed the area, at first finding no one that matched his description, and then off by the entrance, she saw him.

The man, pudgy with brown hair wearing a simple coat, shirt, and shorts, came in a bit nervous, and he too looked around as though looking for someone. She stepped towards the light as his head turned and noticed her.

Huma waited for the man to come towards her. "You nwoguy771?" she asked.

The informant nodded and then eyed his surroundings nervously "I know you're looking for a mole," he said, stepping deeper into the shadows of the Lincoln Memorial.

"What do you have?" Huma asked. She didn't know why, but her heart beat faster. The guy seemed a bit out of it, but she thought maybe it wasn't the situation rather the possibility that one of her friends might be the culprit.

The informant made his voice low. "Real weird shit, lady. Like New World Order type of shit."

At the mention of the New World Order, Huma's heart fell. "What did you say?"

"You don't know about the New World Order?" the informant asked, somewhat surprised. "I thought you worked for them, but when you answered my text, I knew you were one of the—"

"I made a mistake," Huma said, quickly walking past him and bumping against his shoulder. She clearly just made a meeting with an internet crank, the New World Order, of course, supposedly being a shadow world government in conspiracy theories widely disseminated online and on YouTube.

"Wait," he said panicked, grabbing hold of her shoulder. "The mole, it's the President," he continued, his eyes wide. "Alex Jones told me himself."

Ugh, Huma thought. Now she knew she just wasted her time. Alex Jones was the proprietor of the conspiracy theory website, . Huma moved her elbow away and began to head towards the steps of the Memorial.

"You have to believe me," he said. "Don't be a narc!"

Huma ignored him and headed down the stone steps convinced she had wasted a few hours of her life.

•••

In the Peruvian interrogation cell, Hillary clawed at her eyes. The mace had taken its effect, and the only thing she could see was the blurry image of the dank chamber even as the chemical stung and burned her eyes. She could only close her eyes most of the time, and the stickiness and irritation made it hard to see anything.

Alessandra was somewhere over her continuing to spray the mace into her eyes. " _Aaaahhhhhhhh,"_ Hillary cried out with even more of the mace burning her eye sockets. She fell back onto the concrete floor and tried to drag herself away from the marauding socialite. How did she smuggle that damn mace? she thought frantically.

"You had no idea, did you?" Alessandra sneered, spraying the mace again for added measure. Hillary tried to shield her face with her arm as best as she could. "I _wanted_ to be captured. "The prisoners you supposedly 'caught,'" she made air quotes around the word caught, "Two made sure they had something nice in their blood to make them go Boom."

Hillary still tried to drag herself away from the mace-wielding socialite. Whatever Alessandra was talking about, it must be about some sort of bloodstream bomb. Al Qaeda bomb makers had increasingly become more sophisticated. A bloodstream bomb using a chemical like PETN wasn't out of the question.

At any rate, she had to fight back. Her DSS training taught her to fight blind using blindfolds. If only the mace didn't burn so much, but she had to try.

Fighting through her burned vision, she tried to pick herself up, but Alessandra had other ideas.

The socialite screamed aloud making Hillary's ears hurt along with her eyes and then grabbed onto her hair. Hillary winced as Alessandra pulled on the roots of her hair and forcibly began to drag her.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Alessandra said. From what she could see, she was being dragged to the water barrel.

"Drink this, BITCH!" Alessandra cried out, having dragged Hillary just before the barrel filled with water. She wasn't going to like this, Hillary thought even as her head went on a trajectory towards the barrel.

Her head plunged into the water, and soon, her whole head was immersed in the warm, dank water. Hillary tried to cry out from the sudden attack, but her voice was muffled inside the water barrel.

Alessandra held tight on her hair and pushed her deeper into the water even as Hillary's air supply quickly dwindled. Her lungs felt like they were on fire. Can't breathe, she thought. Can't breathe.

Then, the hand pulled her out of the barrel, spraying water everywhere. Hillary gasped aloud, trying to breathe back the air into her lungs.

"Two said to kill you," Alessandra said to her. "It'll be my pleasure!"

She dunked her head back into the water, and Hillary's head once more swam in the water barrel. It was remarkable how quickly her lungs lost air, and soon, she gasped for it. Dank water filled her throat as Alessandra kept her head in the barrel.

There was no denying it, Hillary thought. She was going to die if she didn't think of something fast. Her head gradually became more lightheaded as images and sounds whirred in her brain.

Have to fight back, she chided herself, and one particular memory flashed before her. The boisterous crowd cheered before her as she made her way to the podium. It was Ohio 2008, and the campaign lights at the Franklin, Ohio high school burned down on her.

"For everyone here in Ohio and across America," she saw herself saying in an orange pantsuit. "Who's ever been counted out but refused to be counted out," The crowd cheered aloud as they held up their Hillary signs. "For everyone who has stumbled but stood right back up. And for everyone—" Her words momentarily drowned in the audience's cheers. "Who works hard and never gives up. This one's for you!"

The memory ended but not before she saw herself pointing to the crowd exuberantly.

Somehow, she found the strength. She screamed a primal scream so much so the water gurgled around her, and then, with what remained of her strength, she pushed herself to the side, toppling the water barrel over. The water barrel spilled its contents to the concrete floor while she and Alessandra, who cried out, also fell to the ground.

On the floor, Hillary gasped, her chest heaving up and down. There was something else as well. She could finally see again. As water dripped all over her face, the ceiling came clear to her now. She even saw the ceiling fan that spun lackadaisically above. The water from the barrel, she thought, it must have cleared her eyesight. Her eyes no longer burned, it no longer hurt.

" _NO!"_

Hillary looked over. Alessandra scrambled on the floor towards the mace bottle, which had apparently rolled off away from her when she fell.

She quickly picked herself up and pounced on Alessandra. "Not on my watch," she said to her, putting the socialite in a headlock around her neck.

Alessandra struggled to breathe. "I'd never vote for you," she said, and then, she elbowed Hillary on the face.

She wasn't expecting it, and the blow sailed through right on her nose. Crying out, she felt her face pierce with pain even as Alessandra scrambled up and ran away from her.

Having apparently given up on the mace spray bottle, she headed straight for the door. Hillary fought through the pain and picked herself up.

It was too late.

She saw her fleeting form, and the cell door slammed shut behind the socialite.

Hillary ran after her. She opened the door and onto the corridor where they had led Alessandra into the interrogation cell. She scanned quickly and not finding her, she ran once more, but at the end of the corridor, when she arrived at the prison ward, she came to a stop.

The whole prison was in chaos. The prison cells had been opened, and everywhere, patrol guards fought with the escaped prisoners. Several prisoners, terrorists caught in conflicts such as Yemen and Iraq, ganged up on a single guard, kicking him as the guard shielded their blows with his arms and legs. Around them, the bloody remains of suicide bombers spread out on the ground. Arms and legs lay scattered and everywhere, splatters of blood on the walls and floors. Fire licked where a suicide bomber had blown himself up.

Far across on the other side, however, Alessandra ran for her life, escorted by a group of escaped prisoners.

Amid the din and fighting, Hillary hurried over to a dead guard and kneeling down, picked up his Magnum from his waist. Later, they would honor the sacrifice of these brave Peruvians, but right now, she couldn't allow Alessandra to escape.

Hillary ran through the prison ward as fast as she could. In front, an escaped prisoner noticed her and bared his teeth. He charged, but she was quicker.

Deftly, she shot him in the head, where upon impact on his cranium, spraying blood everywhere, he fell to the floor. Hillary hopped over the dead body and continued to run. Behind her, the telltale sign of an explosion boomed, sending a geyser of blood and body parts into the air.

He was a suicide bomber, she knew, adding another element of danger to her mission.

Another group tried to block her escape. This time, the same group that had made quick work of the guard, now focused on her.

Hillary raised her gun and fired the first, second, and third shots. She didn't target their heads, however. She targeted their knees.

The shots found their mark, and they each buckled to the floor. Pushing her way through the group, she managed to clear them, and after getting some distance, she heard an explosion behind her as well as the _squish_ sound of a bomb ripping through skin.

She was close now. The end of the prison ward was near, and if she was lucky, she thought, she could still catch up to—

To her surprise, a suicide bomber lunged and grappled with her. "Die, Hillary!" he shouted, his remarkably white teeth snapping open.

She didn't have much time left before—

Just barely, she kicked him back, sending the escaped prisoner into an opened cell where he blew himself up.

 _BOOM_

The explosion rocked her backwards and sent her reeling to the floor as his blood disgustingly splattered on her. Her ears rung, and her surroundings spun around her.

In the cell where the explosion took place, a hole opened up to the jungle with rubble and debris as well as the bloody remains of the suicide bomber surrounding it.

Though her ears still rung, Hillary picked herself up and staggered towards the newly-created hole. If she could somehow make it outside, she might be able to create a shortcut to be able to . . .

She stepped over the rubble to the jungle outside where the unrelenting heat of the tropics bore down over her. Leaning against the wall with her hand, mosquitoes buzzed about, but it wasn't that which she heard.

The sound of turbofan engines headed down the airstrip next to the converted prison complex. Hillary turned towards the source of the sound, and she held her breath.

With wind gusting against her and blowing her blonde tresses back, a C-17 cargo plane, the same plane they had arrived in, taxied by where it continued until it took off into the sky.

Hillary could only look up in dismay. As the cargo plane flew off to the sky, its wheels lopping inside the vehicle, she watched as Alessandra James escape their custody.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

 _THE WHITE HOUSE_ _ **  
**_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 20, 2012_

It all made sense.

Hillary Clinton stalked through the halls of the White House headed for only one place—the Oval Office. She had figured it out. Why hadn't she figured it out sooner? Heaven knows . . .

As she stalked through the halls, only staring intently forwards, White House aides moved out of her way, sometimes even backing up onto the blown up color photographs by Pete Souza, the White House photographer, that hung on the walls. The aides, young men and women, all looked back at Hillary's grave expression and then, exchanged glances with one another.

At last, she went into the Oval Office corridor. Anita Decker Breckenridge, the President's personal secretary, instantly hurried towards her, alarmed upon seeing Hillary.

"Madame Secretary," she said, hurrying out of her office towards her even as Hillary headed straight for the Oval Office corridor. "The President said he wasn't to be—"

Hillary ignored her. She kicked the door into the Oval Office, which swung open with a thud, and then, walked right in.

Across from the Resolute desk, President Obama stood by the couches, having conversed with two of his military advisors, Admiral McRaven and General Martin Dempsey. They all had stopped what they were doing, having noticed Hillary storm into the Oval Office.

Hillary pressed on. President Obama set his jaw and stood up taller preparing for Hillary's advance.

She slapped him.

"Shame on you, Barack Obama!" she cried out. The generals exchanged stunned glances even as Obama, his head turned away, received the slap stoically.

"Since when," Hillary scolded, "do presidents send agents out to die?! I thought you were better than this. I thought you would never send anyone in harm's way without telling them exactly the parameters of the mission!"

Obama said nothing for a moment, only continuing to rub his cheek. "I'm sorry, Hillary," he said finally in a low but firm tone.

"You knew Alessandra wanted to be captured," Hillary continued. "You knew she would escape on that plane, and you knew they had smuggled suicide bombers into that prison. What I want to know is why?!"

Obama, his six foot, one inch frame towering over her, regained his composure and looked down on her with surety and grimness. "We had no choice," he said to her, his eyes looking like it had lost its innocence. The military men beside them looked away, also feeling the gravity of their actions. "We had to sacrifice you and the others," the President explained, "to get what we needed."

Hillary couldn't believe what she was hearing. This wasn't the hopeful Barack Obama she lost to in the Democratic Primary. "This isn't the America I know," she said to him. "This isn't the Obama I know. What happened to change, Barack? Her voice started to break. "What happened to hope?"

Obama gazed down. Though on the surface he kept his cool, she knew inside that he held back his anger. "If it's a choice between America's security or my conscience, Hillary," he said. "I'll gladly pay the Devil his due." He gulped trying to keep his emotions in check. "You don't know the responsibility of the office. You don't know what it's like."

She stopped, seeing the pain in Barack's eyes. At that moment, she could see the toll exacted on her once youthful President. There were more wrinkles there, more gray than black in his closely-cropped hair, and those eyes . . .

Would she have made the same choice? She asked herself. All her life she had dreamed of the presidency, but seeing Obama as he was now . . . did she still dream the same dream?

Oh who was she kidding, she thought, shaking herself out of her reverie. Of course she still did. Yet, she didn't anticipate the amount of moral ambiguity a president had to face. The sacrifices he . . . or she had to make.

"I apologize again," Obama said, his face awash with guilt, though the fact the duplicity was out in the open, his voice sounded strangely liberated. "If you can find it in your heart to forgive . . ."

Seeing him there, her resistance melted away, and her anger receded. Just then, Stevie Wonder's song played in her head, the song he played just for her shortly after Bill told her of his infidelity, a song about forgiveness.

If she could forgive, Bill, she thought, suddenly resigned to her feelings. She could forgive, Barack.

Though she still felt wronged, Hillary looked up at Barack and quietly nodded.

"It was the only way," Obama said. "We had to find the location of their base."

Her curiosity was piqued and listened intently for more.

"The C-17 Alessandra stole," Obama explained. "It contained a tracking device. We're tracking her movements right now."

"To where?" she asked.

Obama picked up a tablet on the coffee table and handed it to her.

The tablet screen displayed a map of the world as well as the plane's trajectory from Peru clear all the way to the other side of the globe, to the Himalayas. A cursor the shape of a plane blinked over a spot in the north between the Indian, Pakistani border.

A place called Kashmir.

•••

 _THE SIACHEN GLACIER_ _  
_ _DISPUTED TERRITORY OF KASHMIR_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 20, 2012_

The C-17 cargo plane flew in between a great mountain range. As the highest mountain range in the world, snowcapped mountain peaks rose towards the sky, while snow and ice bore down, signifying its status as one of the most inhospitable regions of the world. This was the Siachen Glacier in Kashmir, a part of the Himalayas and a territory that India and Pakistan, both nuclear powers, contested. Known to be uninhabitable, that didn't stop both of the subcontinent nations to contest it, making the Siachen Glacier one of the most dubious militarized regions in the world. Both India and Pakistan had their bases here, although there was another . . .

The C-17 headed towards a single mountain, higher than the rest, where inexplicably, one of its sides _opened._

Concealed in rock, it was actually a large hangar door, and with a rumble, it rose vertically as the unfazed plane continued to head towards it.

Alessandra James, dressed in a parka to combat the frigid temperatures, stayed inside the cargo hold of the plane. There wasn't much privacy. She was amongst her men; her at the loadmaster station, a compartment close to the front of the plane designated for the loadmaster, a position that checks on the weight of the cargo, and they, the former prisoners who led her escape, at the jump seating that ran the walls of the plane. Beside her, steel access stairs led up to the cramped cockpit. No first class accommodations here. No cabins, but she didn't mind. She was finally going to be with her love.

As the turbofan engines hummed in the background, she sat up in the loadmaster seat, though she didn't care to strap herself in. It actually worked, she thought, she couldn't believe it.

At last, the cargo plane touched down and taxied into the mountain lair. The hold of the plane shook as it made its landing, Alessandra, gripping her seat and loadmaster computer table for support, waited until finally, their plane finished its journey. A moment later, the aft payload door unhinged and began to open, bringing with it a rush of mountain wind. Though the payload door, slowly lowering at an angle to form a ramp, hadn't yet finished landing down onto the ground, she ran to the exit.

Once the payload doors touched down, she looked out searching for him. Her skin felt the chill but still looked out for any sign of her love.

Then she saw him.

He wore a parka that obscured his toned frame, but he was still as handsome as ever. Clambering down the rear door ramp that had touched down on the ground, she ran to #2 who had stayed near the entrance of the hangar.

Carved out of the mountain itself, it was once a Pakistani base that Al Qaeda, under #2's guidance, requisitioned for their own use. Steel supports bolted to the sides of the carved up mountain held up the ceiling.

#2 and Alessandra embraced, and finally, she was able to touch his lips. She drowned in his kiss until painfully, he tore himself away from her. "I have missed you, my love," he said.

This was all worth it, she thought, feeling the rush of it all. It was all worth it as long as she was with him. Unlike many of his Arabian brethren, #2 was clean shaven, and his handsome face looked longingly at her. "Come," he said to her. He took her by the hand and faced the hangar doorway, clearly about to lead her into their mountain sanctuary. "I want to show you our new home . . ."


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

 _THE SIACHEN GLACIER_ _  
_ _DISPUTED TERRITORY OF KASHMIR_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 20, 2012_

Between the snowcapped mountains, a fleet of Black Hawk helicopters flew, their blades thundering, through the mountain pass. In one of the most inhospitable regions in the world, Hillary Clinton sat on the cabin floor of the helicopter by the opened sliding cargo door, her feet dangling over the edge, and watched the stark whiteness of the Siachen Glacier. Behind her, seated on crew seats, three other DSS agents, like her dressed in parkas, stoically waited for their mission to begin. It was hard to hear much of anything through the din of the rotor's blades, but if there was anything important, their pilot would notify them. There wasn't much to do but wait.

Though they were thousands of feet in the air, the snowcapped peaks of the Siachen Glacier, part of the Himalayas, still rose into the sky, so close that Hillary felt she could touch them. Looking out, she could almost laugh. Decades before, Sir Edmund Hillary, the explorer who she was named after, was the first to scale Mt. Everest. Now, she was scaling her own Everest in going after Alessandra and #2. The quirks of fate, she thought.

They had tailed Alessandra to the Siachen Glacier, a remote corner of Kashmir, a volatile region of the subcontinent claimed by both India and Pakistan. Much to their surprise, she had led them to a secret mountain stronghold, which intelligence had later found out to have previously been a Pakistani installation. As to how it ended up in #2's hands, she didn't know, and at this point, it didn't matter. They had to eliminate the threat. Ahead of her in another Black Hawk, Huma joined in on this mission. It was all hands on deck, she knew. It was time to end the game.

Hillary looked over to the side where she knew they were heading to their target. We're coming after you, Alessandra, she thought. She picked up her SIG Sauer beside her and cocked the gun. This time, she's playing for keeps.

•••

In another Black Hawk, Huma Abedin sat on the crew seat with her other compatriots, fellow DSS agents like herself. Unlike them, however, she didn't think she was under the same orders as they were.

As the Black Hawk's rotor blades whirred, the scenery outside was eerily pretty. It seemed to be a peaceful place: the peaks, the snow. Yet, she knew not many could survive such harsh conditions. Even inside the parka she wore and the body heat of those around her, the chill of the Himalayas seeped into her bones. Each breath she took fogged the air.

President Obama had once more given her secret orders. The others were to secure or destroy the HAARP array as well as eliminate #2. But she was to also to look for any information that will lead to the mole.

She sighed. The computers inside the stronghold should be her best bet.

She should have aired her doubts, she thought. All her investigations led her to believe there wasn't a mole. It was impossible. No one at Hillaryland would do such a thing, and the incident at the Lincoln Memorial further solidified that conviction. Yet, when the President asked her if she understood her mission, she only said yes dutifully.

Stupid Huma, she chided herself. Stupid Huma. She shifted in her seat and for a moment briefly envied her fellow DSS agents. Working for historic figures like President Obama and Hillary Clinton wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It made it hard to contradict them especially when she was only a lowly secret agent.

Huma looked out onto the stark mountain peaks of the Himalayas. How did she get caught up in such a life? she thought even as the fleet of Black Hawks continued their forward trajectory.

•••

Alessandra James woke up in a canopied bed amidst rustled cashmere sheets. Underneath the canopy, she stretched her naked form and took a moment to savor the night before. It was the wildest of nights.

She was in one of the bedrooms of Two's . . . their mountain stronghold. Cut inside the rock, there were no views, and the walls were of the granite and jagged edges of the mountain itself along with reinforcing steel bollards and panels grafted onto the rock. Yet, though it was by all intents and purposes a cave, Two still made it comfortable.

Along with the canopied bed, floral Persian rugs protected their feet from the cold floor while incense scented the air. He even provided a vanity so that, as he put it, she could marvel at her own beauty. And though they were inside a mountain in the Himalayas, their stronghold was comfortably heated.

Lying there, she ached inside for his presence. Even now, she could still feel his thrusts. Him on top and her savoring every moment . . .

Pulling the sheets around herself, she picked herself up and headed to the mirror to start her day. On the mirror, her reflection, her blonde hair in a tangled mess, stared back at her. She didn't care. It was a new life, she told herself, and she regretted nothing.

Just as she was about to sit down and prepare herself for the day, a gunshot rang out. Her head snapped towards the sound that now included screams and shouts.

What on earth could that be? she thought.

•••

They were almost there.

In the distance, #2's mountain stronghold rose into the air, towering over the rest of the nearby mountains as the Black Hawk helicopters, traveling fast, flew in formation. Inside Hillary's Black Hawk, each of the DSS agents along with herself checked their weaponry. Ramirez, Deanna, and Tolmer, seated in the helicopter's seats, checked their M-16s, while Hillary placed a clip into her SIG Sauer and placed additional clips into her parka pockets.

"Approaching Siachen Glacier Base," one of the pilots, a man named Brian said. She remembered meeting him from an earlier "meet and greet" session they had in the State Department before leaving for their mission. "If you have anything to say, Madame Secretary, please do so now."

Hillary pressed on her earpiece. The Black Hawk's rotor blades were as loud as always, but she heard the message. "Roger that," she said.

She hoisted herself up and hung on the straps. Outside, a gush of snowdrift winged the plane as more of the mountains passed by.

"We're ready for you, Hillary," the pilot Brian said.

Hillary breathed in. She wasn't as good at extemporaneous speech as her husband, but she'll have to try. "Hello, everyone," she said. "It's my honor to stand here before you as your Secretary of State as well as your team leader." She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. She was so proud of the men and women of the DSS. "We all know why we're here," she said. "I don't need to remind you what's at stake. I just want to say to everyone here. Whatever happens . . . whatever happens in that cold mountain ahead of us. Always remember, we fight for America."

She gulped. On the other hand, her compatriots said nothing, but she could hear their gasps of emotion buried within. "We fight for liberty. We fight for freedom. And not just for our fellow Americans but for all freedom loving people everywhere! Let the light of freedom guide you! Follow that light! Follow that light! May God Bless America!"

Cheers erupted both from inside Hillary's own Black Hawk and in her earpiece as well. "HILL-A-RY!" they chanted. "HILL-A-RY! HILL-A-RY!"

Hillary smiled at her fellow agent's encouragement, but then, the helicopter suddenly banked, forcing her to grab onto the straps. Her fellow agents cried out as they were pushed forward and then held onto each other or to their seatbelt straps.

The Black Hawk helicopter listed but soon righted itself, though the rotor blades still sputtered about, the aerial vehicle quickly losing energy. Hillary grabbed onto strap after strap and carefully stepped towards the cockpit of the helicopter.

Ramirez moved out of the way and let her through only to find both the pilots steering both the cyclic stick and collective lever in each hand tightly as if fighting to keep control of the aerial vehicle. "Report!" she shouted through the din of the sputtering rotor blades.

"I don't know what's wrong!" Brian shouted back. "None of the other Black Hawks are having this problem!"

Hillary looked past the cockpit windows, and indeed, the other Black Hawks continued on their trajectory, gradually moving ahead of their failing vehicle.

"Must be mechanical," Brian added. "It has to be!"

A sound of metal against rock crashed in the air, and the Black Hawk banked sharply to the right. Hillary once more stumbled forward as she cried out along with everyone else inside.

"We're hit!" Brian cried out. "We're hit!"

The Black Hawk whirled around, and for a moment, Hillary saw what had happened. The tail of the helicopter must have strafed the side of a mountain and that meant . . .

They continued to spin in the air even as the helicopter continued to lose altitude.

"Brace for impact, everyone!" Brian shouted. "We're going down!"

•••

Huma Abedin watched as Hillary's Black Hawk helicopter vanish over the side of the mountain, a trail of smoke billowing from its tail.

Her own Black Hawk helicopter continued on its trajectory along with the rest of their fleet.

Balancing herself and hanging onto the straps, she stepped towards the cockpit. "What happened?"

"I don't know," the pilot said. Concern marked his face, but he tried to concentrate on flying the helicopter.

Huma turned back and looked towards the site where her boss's copter went down. Did they crash? Was she still alive? She looked over to her fellow DSS agents, but each of them was also stricken and didn't know what to do.

Her earpiece sounded. " _We'll try to find out what happened back there,"_ Philippe said. " _But the mission commences. I repeat, the mission commences."_

Huma still couldn't believe what had happened. Panic started to rise from within. She wanted to save them, do something, but she got ahold of herself. Hillary would do the same thing, she thought. The frozen chill of the Himalayas bit into her cheeks. She would want them to continue.

Pressing her finger to her earpiece, she spoke to her fellow DSS agents. "I'm taking a command of the mission," she said to them. "Ready your weapons," she added softly.

Behind them, they moved farther and farther away from the mountain that hid Hillary's descent. I hope she's alright, she thought.

•••

Hillary Clinton stirred in the snow. Where was she? she thought, her surroundings a blur until she gave one glance around.

They had apparently crash landed on the side of a mountain with ice and snow blanketing the landscape including herself. The crashed helicopter sat idle close by, its nose crunching against the snow and its tail sticking out into the air as a plume of black smoke rose into the sky. The bodies of her fellow DSS agents lay around the site, all inert and seemingly lifeless.

Hillary rose herself up, disturbing the snow, and she noticed something for the first time. It was stained with blood.

Blood dripped down to the snow, and pressing her hand to her forehead, she felt blood there.

The wind howled around her, but she ignored everything else. Her head ached and her body screamed in pain, but she picked herself up somehow. She had to find out if any of them were still alive. With whatever remained of her strength, she dragged herself to Ramirez, and she covered her mouth at what she saw.

His cold, dead eyes stared up into the sky as blood dripped along the side of his mouth. She went to Tolmer and Deanna. They too didn't make it. Was she the only one?

At the cockpit, she removed a hunk of metal debris out of the way, which punched into the snow, and then, she pried open the door. Both of the pilots were still inside, strapped into their chairs. She held up Brian's head, which lolled to the side still encased in the helmet, and checked his pulse. His co-pilot didn't make it either.

She tried to contain her emotions. They all died doing what they loved, she thought, trying to console herself. Still, the tears came. How could she not? They were so young, their full lives ahead of them . . .

Forcing her emotions deep inside her, she tried to think of what next to do. She had to survive for now. That was the only thing she could do.

Around her, the imposing mountains and stark terrain surrounded her with ice and snow spreading as far as the eye could see. On the mountain ranges and deeper below in the gorges, it seemed she was the only person in the entire world and only the howling wind was her companion.

A chill wind swept down, and snow pricked her face. She won't surive for long in this cold, she thought grimly as she hugged herself in her parka. Who knows what else was out there . . .

 _GRRRRRR_

Hillary gulped, knowing the provenance of that sound. Her eyes wandered off to the side, and on the side of a mountain, a wolf bared its teeth at her. A second wolf and then another and another gathered on the mountain side where they joined together in their growls.

She took a step back. They must have been attracted by the sound of the crash, she thought.

Hillary ran. Seeing their quarry spirit away, the pack of wolves barked and bounded after their prey, their paws imprinting themselves on the layers of snow.

Not knowing what else to do, she continued to run. She had to somehow find a cave, some sort of shelter, she thought as she continued to try to make her escape. The foot-deep snow wasn't helping. It slowed her down, but she had to make it, she had to.

Try as she might, the wolves gained on her, their fangs bared.

Hillary tried to keep running, but there was no denying it, she was getting tired. Her calves started to burn, and her aging bones started to ache. Before, during her Wellesley years, she could run and swim to her heart's content, but the years had caught up to her. She tried to put up a mental block. It was survival time. Keep going or be killed.

It was over. One of the wolves bounded close and snapped at her, biting onto her pant leg. Hillary cried out and fell into the snow where the other wolves howled and joined in for the kill.

Snow burned the skin on her face, but that was the least of her concerns. The wolves bit and tore at her. Her parka provided a modicum of protection, but their teeth already punctured it.

Hillary fought back as best she could. A wolf bit into her forearm, and she shook her arm to the side and tossed one of the wolves only to find another wolf, its fanged mouth opened wide, replace it.

The wolves didn't let up. They clamped their jaws on seemingly every part of her body, her arms, legs, even her hips. Hillary cried out in pain, frustration, fear—trying to fend them off, trying anything to rid herself of her attackers. She had no illusions what they wanted to do. They wanted to kill her and tear her limb from limb.

Inexplicably, the wolves suddenly stopped. They poked up their heads as if they sensed something in the offing.

For a moment, nothing happened, just her and the wolves, and then, the ground rumbled. Soft at first, the ground shook with increasing ferocity causing the wolves to whimper and bound away to somewhere downhill.

Hillary rose up into a sitting position as the ground around her continued to shake. What's going on? she thought, looking around in confusion.

She found her answer.

Farther up in the mountain, a wall of snow came rushing down at her, stampeding over anything in its path.

Hillary's heart stopped as she saw what was coming down towards her. An avalanche.

Instinctively, she began to pick herself up. Maybe once more, escape with her life, political or otherwise. She'd done it before . . .

Her luck had run out. The avalanche engulfed her just as soon as she stood up, forcing her forward as the snow pushed her down and down.

The wolves didn't have much luck either. It caught up to the creatures, and all of them, Hillary and wolf alike, went down the side of the mountain.


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Gunfire rang out in the helicopter garage of #2's terrorist Siachen Glacier Base. Huma and the rest of the DSS agents had stormed into the helicopter garage from the helipad outside, and now, they were pinned down. The jihadists, in keffiyehs and heavy coats, shot down their Kalashnikovs from atop a catwalk platform, peeking out from crates they used as cover. #2 himself shot at the agents with his gun as he held Alessandra's hand and used his body as a shield to keep her away from danger.

Huma and her fellow DSS agents hid as best they could behind the Soviet era Mi-24 and Mi-26 helicopters. Already, casualties mounted on both sides. The terrorist dead fell down from the catwalk platform while their own DSS agents injured or dead lay on the floor.

A gunshot clipped the nose of the Mi-26 helicopter, narrowly missing Huma. Using the body of the helicopter, she crouched back into cover and then changed the clip of her standard issue SIG Sauer pistol. Mission's already not going according to plan, she thought with gritted teeth. If only Mrs. Clinton was here.

"Get to the plane!" Rosen said, crouching beside her. Rapid Kalashnikov fire winged past them, strafing their protective helicopter.

"After this!" Huma shouted back. Once more, she swung her herself into the gunfight and shot her Sig Sauer. #2, her intended target hid behind a crate. Noticing it was Huma who fired at him, he motioned to his men to keep firing.

More shots rang out, forcing Huma once more to take cover. By a doorway, a jihadist motioned to #2 and Alessandra, and they took their chance. Holding each other's hands, they made their way to the doorway keen to avoid any bullets heading their way.

Huma gritted her teeth once more. We can't let them escape, she thought. She swung herself again, this time to the open cargo hold of the Russian helicopter and fired her gun.

She missed. The bullets bounced against the railing, causing sparks to fly, all the while #2 and Alessandra made good their escape, the metal door swinging behind them.

"Go!" Rosen said beside them. "We'll cover you!" Once more, he swung to the side and fired his gun.

Huma breathed in and held her pistol close to her. Here goes nothing.

With a running start, she rushed towards the far door, firing blindly at the catwalk platform above. The jihadists took cover from the combined barrage but poked their Kalashnikovs above the crates and returned fire.

Bullets strafed the floor as Huma ran, but lunging forward, she found safety behind a set of palletized crates. She rolled to a kneeling position and caught her breath.

There was a lot more to do, she knew. Opening the metal door, she made her way into a concrete-lined corridor. Her guard up, she raised her gun and went down the passageway.

" _The hangar is further in,"_ Philippe said in her earpiece.

"Copy that," Huma said, holding a finger into her earpiece. "What about #2 and Alessandra?"

" _Uh, your top priority is neutralizing the plane, that's our orders,"_ he said back.

She took in the message. Hopefully, her fellow DSS agents could catch the terrorist couple. Then, gun at the ready, she pressed on, prepared to fight her way through the base if necessary to her destination. Huma kept a keen eye for any jihadists inside the glacier base, but to her surprise, the base was eerily empty. She thought that perhaps they were undermanned and that they'd headed to the helicopter garage until turning the corner, she found someone.

Out of a doorway that led into a room carved into the mountain, a jihadist laid on the concrete ground. He struggled to live as a wound reddened his parka and blood dripped from his mouth. Huma crept close, gun in hand, unsure of whether this was a trap, but as she got closer and closer, she knew he didn't have long to live. He was young too, she thought. Couldn't be far from his late teens.

The young jihadi coughed out his own blood, but it sounded as though he was trying to say something. Huma knelt down beside him.

"D—" the young jihadi choked on his own words. "Dee," he said finally, and then, the end came. His head fell to the side, his own eyes blank. Huma didn't think he deserved this, but she closed his eyes for him.

Did Dee do this? she asked. He turned on them but why? She quickly left the young jihadi and continued on. Through the corridors she went passing by more bodies on the floor. Their guns were still strapped onto them like someone caught them by surprise.

She put it out of her mind. Dee or not, she had to focus on her mission. With Philippe, in temporary operations in Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan, helping to guide her, she went through the corridors until a double metal door lay before her. The sign above said "Hangar." She found what she was looking for.

She opened one side of the metal door and carefully stepped inside, but the hangar was nothing what she expected.

It was a wide space with the large steel hangar door clear on the other side. On the floor, several DSS agents and terrorists lay dead, but that wasn't the only sight that caught her breath. All over the hangar bay, crates could be found as well as . . .

Chemicals.

These chemicals, in silver metallic canisters, joined the crates, some on top while others sitting on the ground. Numbers and labels were plastered onto the canisters as though detailing their contents, and ominously, a skull and crossbones symbol accompanied the labels, indicating its toxic nature. And then there was the captured C-17.

It had been _modified._ The cargo plane still resembled itself, but in the middle, metallic spires rose up. They looked to have been grafted onto the plane both atop and on its sides.

Huma knew exactly what that was.

It was the HAARP array, she thought grimly. They had somehow grafted the antennas and spires onto the plane itself. She gulped, realizing then and there what they planned to do with such a weapon. It had to be destroyed.

She stepped forward, but a shot rang out from inside the cargo hold itself, forcing her to take cover behind a set of crates.

Inside the cargo hold of the HAARP plane, Dee Romney peeked out, his Grach pistol in hand. "Sorry to see you again, Huma," he shouted. "It's unfortunate we keep meeting this way."

•••

From out of the snow, Hillary's hand shot out into the air. The snow moved further, and rising out, she rose into a sitting position on what could have been her icy tomb. At the base of the mountain range, the avalanche had finally made its stop. She somehow survived, she thought groggily. Ice and snow clung to every part of her body, and her skin turned red from the cold. She was still alive.

She shifted in the snow trying to pick herself up. Instead, she gasped as a wolf's head slumped down beside her, its fangs bared. But only momentarily. The wolf was dead, its tongue hanging out on the side of its mouth. Hillary pushed the wolf's head away from her and then rubbed her temples.

The other wolves had apparently met the same end. Parts of their fur, legs, or heads stuck out from the snow, all dead, all lifeless.

Groggily, Hillary managed to pick herself up. A sharp pain struck her side, and though wincing, she willed herself through it.

She knew she was lucky to be alive. The last she remembered, the avalanche barreled down the mountain, her along with it. Then, she blacked out, and at last, she found herself here.

As the winds howled fiercely, the solitary peaks of the Himalayas surrounded her on all sides. Her travails weren't over, not by a long shot. She had to think of something fast. In this inclement weather, she wouldn't survive for long.

She was alone, though, the stark whiteness all around. What was she going to do . . .

An idea struck her. The sleeve buttons, she thought deliriously. Jake mentioned this new class of pantsuit included GPS tracker sleeve buttons.

Eagerly, she pulled down the sleeve of her parka and checked on her pantsuit cuffs. Her encroaching smile vanished, however, when she pressed on her cuff buttons and nothing happened. She pressed on them again, but she already knew these were ordinary cuff buttons. She closed her eyes. This wasn't her battle pantsuit, she realized. It was still back in the State Department. Now what was she going to do?

A gust of wind blew down from the mountain, bringing with it a snow drift, and Hillary had to shield herself with her arms, though she did manage to catch a glimpse of the mountain she had just come from.

She had to go to high ground, she decided. It was the only thing she could do. If they were looking for her, they would more easily find her in the peaks than down below here.

Pulling up the hood of her parka, Hillary began her ascent up the mountain. Minutes, hours, days? she continued, past the howling winds and unforgivable terrain. At first, she thought she would make it, but as she continued, she grew more and more tired, more and more listless.

The snow and winds battered her as though sadistically, they wanted to beat her into submission. She thought of everything to keep going, Bill, Chelsea, the presidency, but soon, the trek proved to be too much. Her fatigue as well as her injuries caught up to her.

On a side path of the mountain, Hillary dragged herself taking one heavy step after another.

"With great humility and honor," she shouted deliriously. A line of snow trailed from behind, caused by her dragging feet. "I accept your nomination to the Presidency of the United—"

She collapsed. With a thud, she landed face down on the snow. A rush of cold snow impacted her face, but she was too weakened to do anything about it.

Her whole body ached, and the cold . . . it was so cold. This was it, Hillary thought almost with resignation. In her heart, she knew. She wasn't going to make it.

I'm sorry, she said to herself. The faces of Bill, Chelsea, her mom and dad, everyone she cared about flashed before her. For a moment, she thought she could reach out and touch their warm, lovely faces. I'm so sorry.

Like her 2008 run for the presidency, it was not to be. It was over, and she laid there in the snow, waiting to finally meet her end . . .

"Hillary . . ." a distinguished but haunting voice said. What? she thought. Was she hearing things?

"Hillary . . ." the voice said again.

Groggily, she picked her head up and looked around. In the blur, she could only see whiteness, the unrelenting whiteness of the landscape. Where was that voice coming from?

Was it a hallucination? Or maybe . . . she was finally going crazy?

Then, a figure stepped before her, and she craned her head up. A matronly woman in a shawl stood right in front of her with a stern but nonetheless caring visage. The hairstyle of her wavy, a pin-curl hair parted to the right, was reminiscent of the 1930's.

Hillary's jaw slackened at the figure that gazed down at her.

It was none other than Eleanor Roosevelt.

•••

Gun drawn, Huma readied for battle. She still hid behind the crates that were plentiful in the hangar.

"I don't want you dead," Dee Romney said from afar. "You have to understand."

Huma squeezed the grip of her gun tighter. She didn't know what he was talking about, and right now, she didn't think much of it. She had a mission to complete.

Deciding it was time, she swung to the side of the crate and pointed the gun straight at the HAARP plane cargo hold, its payload door ramp down, where she last saw Dee.

He wasn't there. The cargo hold of the plane was empty, but just moments before, she saw he was running for cover behind the side of the plane.

Her eyes darted to every part of the HAARP plane, the wings, under the hold, and finally, the cargo hold itself. Where did he go? She could sworn he was just at the . . .

He was atop the crates. She noticed him finally, but it was too late. Dee jumped down, right on top of her. Under his weight, she cried out as she fell to the ground losing her grip on her gun in the process, sending it clanging on the floor.

Dee pressed his advantage and coming upon her, tried to grab onto her wrists while she was down on the ground. Remembering her Krav Maga training, she managed to free one of her wrists from his grasp, struck him in the face with her palm, and with a lift of her hips, pushed him off of her, throwing him to the side.

She found her chance. Quickly, she went for her gun.

" _Gah,"_ he cried out, recovering from the blow, and soon, grabbed hold of her again, sending them both back to the ground.

Though hurting, Huma pressed on. With Dee struggling against her, she reached out to get her gun only to find Dee's hands trying to grab her own hands away.

She reached for her gun anyways, but Dee got there first. With a shove, he pushed her gun away, and it slid off further away from her towards the metal double doorway.

But nearby, she found another weapon. A blowtorch, lay on its side close to one of the crates, and taking hold of it, she swung it right in his face, causing Dee to cry out at her sudden attack as he rolled back.

Now free, she picked herself back up and held the blowtorch threateningly in front of her. She'll take any advantage she can get.

Dee, also up, took a step back upon seeing her newfound weapon. Huma started it. A sheath of fire erupted from the mouth of the blowtorch, and she pointed it straight at Dee like a miniature flamethrower. She didn't want to kill him, she thought, but she'll do it if she had too.

Dee expertly parried her attack. The heat from the blowtorch slightly singed her fingers, but she pointed it again with Dee once more parrying the second strike.

She pointed the blowtorch once more, but he was too fast for her.

With almost preternatural speed, he deflected the blowtorch from him, which sent the flame veering away. Then, he grabbed onto her wrist and twisted it. The pain shot through her, and she cried out immediately. As the blowtorch clanged to the ground, Dee twisted her arm back towards him and spun behind her, putting her into a rear hold, her arm twisted back behind her and his hand across her chin and mouth.

Huma struggled, trying to get out from his grip, but he held on firmly. "I told you, I don't want to kill you," he said to her. His hand was across her face, and she knew he could easily snap her neck.

"Time to end the Benghazi affair," he whispered to her. Covering her mouth, he began to drag her to the cargo hold of the converted C-17 that was now the HAARP plane.


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Hillary fell to the snow. Up high on the mountain, the wind blew down drifting snow fiercely as though it didn't want trespassers onto its realm.

"I can't do it," she cried out. She could taste the snow. "I can't do it." she repeated, slumping her head onto the snow and ice.

"Get up!" Eleanor Roosevelt, wearing a shawl and a matronly, handwoven dress, reproached. A small flower hat graced her head. Though the snow blew all around and the cold crept in, the former First Lady didn't seem bothered by the cold. "That's not the Hillary I know!"

She had explained earlier she was the ghost of Eleanor Roosevelt, and Hillary didn't seem surprised at all. Eleanor had actually visited her before. After the failure of her healthcare plan, one of the darkest days of her First Ladyship, Eleanor came to her, summoned in a séance with the help of "human potential researcher" Dr. Jean Houston. It helped her get through those dark days and many dark days after.

"It's over," Hillary said with resignation, not bothering to lift her head from the snow, which numbed her skin more and more. Her whole body had shut down. Eleanor had asked too much from any woman, let alone a woman in her sixties. "It's over."

Eleanor grimly gazed down and narrowed her eyes at her. "Get up!" she said, kicking Hillary's prone form on the ground with her flat-heeled shoe. "You were First Lady of the United States. Get up!"

Hillary stayed there in the snowy ground. She was done listening or more precisely, her body was done listening.

Eleanor kicked her again. "Get up, Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton!"

The kick did nothing, Hillary continued to lay there. Undeterred, FDR's First Lady kicked her a third time. "Get up, Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton!"

There was nothing Eleanor could say. Already, the cold bit into the skin of her face as sleep, wondrous sleep, beckoned to her. Her eyes began to close. Let history be her judge. Maybe, she could sleep right here . . .

Eleanor Roosevelt saw Hillary ready to sleep and crouched beside her. She stared at Hillary's heavy eyes. "Get up," Eleanor reproached. ". . . _President_ Hillary Rodham Clinton!"

Her eyes glanced up. She was right. She can't give up yet. The future still had to be fought. She still wanted to serve the United States. A familiar saying quoted back at her, something she always said growing up as a Midwestern Methodist girl. The sort of convoluted saying went: Do all the good that you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can . . . and it sort of went on and on, but Hillary got the message.

She roused from her prone form. "That's it!" Eleanor cheered.

Hillary then raised herself to one knee, her aching body protesting every step of the way.

"Go on, Hillary!" Eleanor continued. "You want to break that glass ceiling, do you?!"

Somehow, she managed to pick herself up. Her whole body was close to numb from the cold, and without any prodding from the former First Lady and though her knees ached, she began to step with one foot after another towards the summit of the mountain.

"Woooooooo!" Eleanor cried out behind her as she raised both arms slowly and then wiggling her fingers. Hillary had already advanced a few steps when she thought she could take another. "Pig! Sooie!" Eleanor finished.

She couldn't help but be encouraged. It was the hog call from her days as a law professor cheering on the Razorbacks football team back in Arkansas.

Newly invigorated, she continued her ascent up the mountain. As though threatened, the wind blew down ever fiercer and the snow pounded against her, but she pressed on up and up the side of the mountain. Her body no longer complained. There was hurt there, but it was tempered by something else. Her will, perhaps. The presence of Eleanor? Her faith in The Lord? She didn't know, but she pressed on.

"Eighteen million cracks, Hillary," Eleanor chided her, trying to encourage her even more. "The nation's highest glass ceiling still has eighteen million cracks!"

Hillary only gritted her teeth and trudged up the mountain. One foot after the other. That was all she could concentrate on. One foot after another until finally, miraculously, she made it. She made it to the summit of the mountain.

As Eleanor joined her, Hillary, breathing hard, gazed out from the summit.

It was so . . . beautiful.

The peaks, the valleys, the never ending range of mountains, the snow that went seemingly to the ends of the earth, she watched it all from her vantage point as if she was on top of Creation itself. The sun lit up in the horizon, and the clouds, the whitest of clouds, wisped by so close she could grasp it.

Eleanor Roosevelt, with a thin smile, beamed proudly at her. Then, she leaned in closer. "You know what you have to do . . ."

Hillary knew what she was talking about. She gazed down from the summit where a thousand-foot fall would surely kill anyone foolish enough to take the leap . . .

She placed a hand inside her parka and retrieved a flare gun. Then, she pointed it at the sky, but first, she glanced over at Eleanor, who simply nodded at her.

 _BANG_

The flare went up and up and finally exploded in the sky a burst of red and orange smoke in an otherwise blue horizon.

There was nothing left to do, Hillary thought. Here's to hoping . . .

Moments later, Eleanor pointed towards the distance. "Look!" she said eagerly.

A Black Hawk helicopter appeared over the horizon, its rotors beating in continuous fashion, and headed towards her. They had seen her flare, Hillary thought rapturously. They were coming for her.

The helicopter flew closer and closer until finally, it hovered just above. The updraft from the helicopter swept the snow in all directions, forcing her to shield herself with her arm. It finally touched land, and from the cargo hold, Cheryl and Jake, both in parkas, hopped out and hurried towards her.

"Are you alright!" Cheryl asked as she and Jake threw a blanket over her shoulders and led her back into the cargo hold of the helicopter. As they took her away, Hillary only glanced back at Eleanor, who stood there smiling serenely at her.

"We heard what happened," Cheryl continued over the din of the helicopter's blades. "It's a miracle you survived out here!"

Hillary wasn't listening. As they loaded her into the Black Hawk cargo hold, a technician placed a second blanket over her. She only continued to gaze at Eleanor. A part of her didn't want to leave. She wanted to stay, keep Eleanor company.

The Black Hawk lifted off, and as it rose into the air, Eleanor Roosevelt, down below with the snow drifting past her from the helicopter's wind gusts, waved goodbye. She kept waiving goodbye until finally, she vanished from the summit itself.

"Goodbye, Eleanor," Hillary, clutched inside the blanket, whispered as the Black Hawk helicopter banked away towards seeming safety.

•••

 _SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE SAHARA  
_ _OCTOBER 22, 2012_

The sands beneath it, the HAARP plane, its antenna arrays sticking up in its middle like spires, flew in the sky. Through the cockpit windows, Dee Romney sat in the pilot's seat determinedly flying the converted C-17 for his final mission.

And past the cockpit enclosure and down the access stairs, in the cargo hold of the plane, Huma, on the floor, gradually opened her eyes.

Uhhhh, she thought groggily. The instant she woke she remembered what had happened—her capture by Dee, but glancing around at her steel confines, she didn't exactly know where she was.

Huma sat herself up, and trying and failing to yank her hand to her head, she finally noticed the handcuffs around her wrist.

She must be in the HAARP array plane, she thought, looking around. It was a typical hold of a cargo plane. The jump seats that lined against the plane's steel walls, the relatively vast hold with its steel floor, and the loadmaster station and galley spaces at the front of the cargo hold with access stairs that led up to the cockpit.

Still, the inside of the HAARP plane was different. Ballast barrels, large black metallic containers, lined the back of the cargo hold with individual canisters strewn about. Cables snaked from the middle to the barrels and then up and around the walls into burned metal as though it was grafted into the plane. What is that? she thought, thinking that it didn't look like the HAARP array.

It wasn't her most pressing concern however. A vague burning chemical smell permeated the air and irritated her nose. She sniffed, though that didn't really get rid of the smell.

"Sulfur dioxide," a voice said. It was Dee and he stepped down from the metallic access stairs and into the cargo hold.

It was the chemical she saw back in the hangar, she knew, and glancing around, she surmised it was the same chemicals inside those ballast barrels and canisters.

Dee continued into the loadmaster station, sat down on the seat, and began to check on the various instruments.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked him.

The seated Dee Romney kept his eyes on the loadmaster station's computer console and instruments. "I'm no traitor," he said. "On the contrary," he continued. He turned to her. "With this plane," his eyes taking in the entirety of his creation. "I'll secure victory for my father and set America back on track."

Huma felt like she couldn't recognize Dee anymore.

"Whatever you're planning, it won't work," she said. "It's America's decision, not yours. It's not your place."

Her words didn't seem to have the desired effect. He looked at her with almost despairing eyes. "It has to work," he said. "Your President spread so many filthy lies about my father when he's the one who turned five percent unemployment to ten!"

Reflexively, Huma bristled at the central talking point of the Romney campaign. While the unemployment rate did rise to ten percent, the unemployment rate began to rise sharply during Bush's term, predating Obama's presidency. She wanted to say it was Bush's policies that caused the Great Recession, but she had to focus. "This is how you're going to help your father?" she asked him, still trying to get through to her once fellow agent. "With this plane?"

Dee scoffed. "When my father sees what I've done for him, after I've secured the presidency for him," he gulped and balled his fist. His eyes reddened, holding back tears. "He will come to me, and he will love me."

Huma could only lean back against the metal wall. The words sank into her and she knew there was nothing she could do to convince him otherwise. Whatever was going to happen, Dee planned to take it all the way.

•••

 _BAGRAM AIR FORCE BASE_ _  
_ _PARWAN PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 22, 2012_

Bagram Air Force Base was a flurry of activity. Military personnel rushed about the runway while around them, low-slung buildings and tents constituted the extent of the airfield's structures.

SAM, the Secretary of State's blue and white Boeing C-32, sat on the runway, its engines already rearing to go. As the barren mountains of Afghanistan rose in the distance, Cheryl and Jake led Hillary down the stairwell pressed against the C-130, a smaller variant of the C-17 Globemaster plane. She had taken off her parka and now just wore her pantsuit.

Jake led her down to the ground as he held Hillary's hand to keep her steady. Dan and Philippe along with the medical staff, holding first aid kits, quickly hurried towards her.

"I don't need medical help," she said, waving them off as they led her to the SAM plane. Cheryl followed closely behind.

"We have to," Philippe protested. "You were out there for two days."

"Just take me to Washington," she said, waving a hand away as a medic tried to wipe her forehead.

Continuing onto SAM, they all glanced towards Cheryl, who simply nodded at them.

Philippe shrugged, and the medical staff stood still as they continued onwards. Ahead, a group of personnel led the stairwell and lined it up alongside SAM.

Her plane sitting on the tarmac, Hillary thought of the Siachen mission and was eager to find out what happened, but looking at the faces of her aides, one person was conspicuously missing.

"Where's Huma?" she asked.

Their stricken faces told her all she needed to know

•••

 _THE WHITE HOUSE_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 22, 2012_

President Obama stood at the head of the conference table, his hands at his hips. Leather executive chairs surrounded the conference table as his National Security Council buzzed about the Situation Room reading reports that came straight to their tablets or simply viewing the screen at the front of the room. Vice President Joe Biden stood by Obama as they both stared at the same screen.

It depicted a map of the world with several red dots pulsating on various points on the globe including the Siachen Glacier in Kashmir.

"Find me that plane," Obama called out to the front of the room.

"Yes, Mr. President," a voice in the intercom said. Obama knew in another room of the White House Situation Room complex, several of his men manned a row of computer terminals carrying out his orders. Other facilities in the Pentagon and Langley did the same.

Could be anywhere in the world, he thought, and glancing at Joe, he knew he was thinking the same. Last he heard, the HAARP plane, as it was called by the DSS agents who survived the mission, had taken off from the Siachen Glacier Base. And not by #2 either but by Dee, who had taken Huma with him.

Probably as a human shield, he thought, and Obama tried not to think what he would have to do if they had indeed found that fugitive plane.

"Mr. President," NSC Advisor Susan Rice said. The hard charging African American presidential advisor was all business in her tight, dark skirtsuit. "The Madame Secretary's on the phone."

Obama picked up the satellite phone as Joe went to converse with one of the generals.

"Good to hear you're safe, Hillary," he said. Earlier, he'd been told of her rescue. He had worried about her when reports of her crashed Black Hawk reached him, but somehow, he knew she would pull through. She was a fighter.

Hillary went right to the matter. "Barack," she said with panic in her voice. "Where's Huma?"

Obama didn't say anything for a moment knowing what had happened to her during the mission. "We have reason to believe she's in—"

"Woah!" a voice cried out from the intercom.

"What was that?" another voice said, but the rest soon devolved into a babel of voices.

Obama glanced about not knowing what had happened, and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the anomaly. A formation grew off the coast of Nicaragua, pulsating redder and redder . . .

"Ionosphere heating up!" shouted a voice in the intercom. "Bearing 13.5 North, 78 West!"

The NSC staff and the Vice President along with Obama gawked at the growing formation.

"What does that mean, General?" Obama asked.

General Dempsey turned around, his face stricken. "The HAARP Device," he said. "It's been activated."

Joe glanced back with the same level of concern.

Looks like they found Dee, Obama thought.

•••

The thunder crackled amongst the dark clouds as the HAARP plane flew on its trajectory. A trail of white bulbous plume of chemicals spewed from the back of the aircraft. Called chemtrails, Dee had activated it earlier in order to feed the growing hurricane.

Inside the plane, Dee kneeled by Huma with rations of MRE crackers and beef stew in his hand. "You have to eat," he said. He had placed the plane on autopilot giving him free rein to head back to Huma. "It's a long trip."

Huma didn't reply. With her wrist cuffed, she only sat back against the wall and looked away, refusing to make eye contact. She had nothing to say to him.

Dee glanced down at the rations he wanted to give her and sighed. "I'm not a bad guy, Huma," he said, putting the rations in its sand-colored MRE packaging in front of her. He rose up, his whole frame towering over. "You'll see."

He headed back to the pilot's seat, leaving Huma alone once more.


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

 _CNN STUDIOS_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 29, 2012_

"Welcome to our viewers in the United States and around the world. I'm Wolf Blitzer, and you're in the Situation Room!

On a screen behind Wolf Blitzer, the host of CNN's Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer, the opening sequence began where a point of light snaked its way first through the city of Sydney, Australia. Amidst the pomp of music, reminiscent of the sound of war, the point of light wound past the Sydney Opera House. A target reticule appeared and began to pinpoint the city of Dubai with the point of light flashing by. Then through London, the reticule, this time, targeting the London skyline, the London Eye foremost among them. The music of "The Situation Room" grew more and more ecstatic as the flash of light passed by London and onto New York. The menacing reticule now targeted the Empire State Building, and finally, with the music finishing with a flourish, the flash of light headed to Washington, DC and against the backdrop of the Washington Monument and the National Mall, the flash of light dipped into the reflecting pond. The caption behind Blitzer read:

THE

SITUATION

ROOM

with WOLF BLITZER

Wolf Blitzer, in a comfortable business suit, stood proudly in his very own Situation Room, the only other person in the world who can proudly say he has one. The silver-haired and bearded Wolf gazed at the camera with seriousness and purpose.

"We begin this hour with breaking news," Blitzer said. Unlike Obama's Situation Room, his own Situation Room exuded a modern flair with a glass shard-like table to his side and a huge video wall filled with several screens in a row all featuring the news of the day: an ominous swirl of clouds heading towards the United States.

"A Frankenstorm," Blitzer said rapturously. "That's what officials are calling it as Hurricane Sandy may, I repeat, may bear down on New York City. Our very own Maria Bartoli has more."

The news anchor turned around, and there on the screen, a woman in a rain jacket squinted before the cameras. Wind blew down upon her, and palm trees swayed. Behind her, waves crashed upon the sandy shores.

"That's right, Wolf," she said, concern etched on her face. "Officials are worrying Hurricane Sandy will strike the Eastern Seaboard today, though they're cautiously optimistic the Frankenstorm will veer towards the Atlantic."

Wolf Blitzer frowned seriously as he held a news report in his hand. "When will we know if Sandy will strike New York, Maria?"

"Officials say they're still calculating Sandy's path," she replied. "We should know later today where she's headed."

"Keep us updated, Maria," Wolf said. He turned to another bank of cameras. "Just to be safe, hide your women, hide your children. Sandy may be coming to town!"

•••

 _THE WHITE HOUSE_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 29, 2012_

Through the audio feed in the Situation Room, screams of dying men sounded in agony, their last shouts drowned out by a furious swell of wind.

President Obama, the leather-bound executive chair he sat on facing sideways from the conference table, had his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

The audio feed, emanating from a giant video screen at the front of the room, suddenly cut out.

"Strike group failed," General Dempsey said somberly. Wearing his military uniform bedecked with a multitude of medals and rank star insignias, the general didn't say anything further. He only gazed down, despair in his eyes.

What was he going to do? Obama thought. With his hands buried in his face, he couldn't see anything, and frankly, he didn't want to see anything. Another strike group had failed to halt Dee's advance. Dee's HAARP plane had neutralized everything they've sent his way or more accurately, the hurricane the HAARP array created had done so. They couldn't get close. Tomahawk cruise missiles couldn't navigate through the treacherous winds. Their fighter planes couldn't get through either. If the hurricane's gale force winds didn't stop the planes, the lightning Dee activated from the array did.

He was running out of options. Dee was hell-bent on striking New York, and when the hurricane didn't cease its advance, he'd have to tell the American people the truth of what was really going on: that a top secret weapon had fallen into enemy hands.

At that point, he didn't care so much about the election. He'd most likely lose now, and surprisingly, that seemed the least of his concerns. If this was the end, though, he didn't want the end of his presidency to be like this. Not like this with so many lives lost. History will not be kind, and the families of the American people he was sworn to protect, they would not forgive him.

Obama gazed back up to those around him, Joe Biden, General Dempsey, Susan Rice, and the rest of his National Security Council all stunned around him.

There was still one option left, he knew. Still, he thought. Could it actually be an option?

•••

 _HARRY S. TRUMAN FEDERAL BUILDING_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 29, 2012_

In the darkened room of Hillaryland Ops, up on the seventh floor of the State Department building, Hillary stood grim faced. Around her, Hillaryland staff members, sitting at their posts on the two rows of computer worktables or standing with tablets in hand, also stared at the central viewscreen at the front of the room. The viewscreen revealed a map of the Eastern Seaboard where an ominous hurricane cloud formation, taking what seemed to be half the entire Atlantic Ocean, barreled its way to New York.

Cheryl, Jake, Dan, and Philippe each manned a seat at the worktables. Their computer monitors were in front of them, but they said nothing. They all looked to Hillary for answers, but she didn't have any for them.

On the screen, "Hurricane Sandy," the cover story cooked up by the CIA, continued to swirl up the Eastern coast of the United States.

She had been notified the strike group failed. While she hoped they would succeed, she knew the chances of success were low. So many lives had been taken already . . .

They've tried everything, she thought. They even contacted Mitt Romney to try to convince him to talk to his son. Instead, he and Barack's conversation devolved into bitter wrangling about who was leading who in the polls.

Hillary looked down and thought hard. There had to be a way! They tried attacking him, they tried contacting Dee's father, what else can they—

An idea came to her.

"Patch me through to Ann Romney," she said to Philippe.

"What?" He soured at the unexpected request. "Why?" he asked, seated close to her.

"Do it."

Philippe shrugged and typed on the keyboard. When Mitt Romney won the Republican nomination, he was given Secret Service protection as well as access to top secret technology given to presidential candidates.

The screen at the front room switched from the hurricane to the face of Ann Romney. The blonde-haired Ann looked pretty, but the stress of both the campaign and Dee's defection, took a toll on her. She gazed back at Hillary, concern on her face and dark circles under her eyes hidden carefully by makeup.

"Ann," Hillary said, taking one step forward towards the central viewscreen of Hillaryland Ops. "Please," she pleaded. "From a mother to a mother, we need your help."

•••

 _SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE ATLANTIC OCEAN_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 29, 2012_

The waves of the Atlantic Ocean crashed mercilessly against one another, while up above, the HAARP plane, its spires sticking up in its middle like jagged edges, continued on its trajectory. As they were in the eye of the hurricane, the winds itself were quite placid, but it was a mirage. In the distance, ominous dark clouds surrounded the plane as winds howled, the hurricane created by the full force of the HAARP array.

At the front of the plane, Dee, seated on one of the pilot's seats, held tight on the flight stick. He gritted his teeth as he flew the plane ever on the lookout for yet another attack by the Air Force.

Meanwhile, inside the cargo hold, Huma tried to use her foot to grab hold of a metallic canister. She was still cuffed to the railing and had no choice but to use her feet.

She had seen her chance, and she concentrated on trying to get her feet to catch hold of the object too far to grab with her free hand but still so tantalizingly close.

She had found a way to escape. The metallic canister close by contained sulfur dioxide. She had earlier thrown water that Dee had given her on her handcuffs, and if she could only get it over to her, she could use the chemical reaction to weaken the metal of her restraints.

With one foot, she had pinned the canister to the floor. There we go, she thought as sweat tinged her brows. The HAARP array inside the plane heated up the confines of the converted C-17.

Having succeeded with one foot, she then used her other foot to guide the canister over to her. Easy does it, she thought. Come to mama.

The canister inched closer. Now all she had to do was—

She shoved the canister with her foot over to her, and with her hand, she tried to reach out. The canister rolled closer and closer, and her hand could almost touch it . . .

At that moment, Dee clambered down the access stairs, and upon seeing her, his face dawned on what she was up to.

Uh oh, she thought wincing, knowing that she'd been caught, but she had finally grabbed hold of the canister.

"No!" Dee cried out, scrambling to her.

Canister in hand, she smashed the lid onto both the railing and the handcuff chain. Sulfur dioxide spilled out, and Huma had to turn her face to avoid the back splatter.

The chemical did its work. With a hiss, it quickly began to dissolve the metal as Dee ran towards her

The chains of her handcuffs weakened enough, Huma yanked the handcuffs, breaking from its restraints and then swung at Dee, using the handcuffs as an extra weapon.

It made its mark. Dee staggered back from the blow as Huma ran up against him, causing him to fall back against the loadmaster station chair. Ahead, the cockpit enclosure was now open to her. If she could take control of the plane, maybe even deliberately crash it, she could save so many lives.

Without heed to Dee, Huma quickly scrambled up the plane's access stairs and to the cockpit. She ran up to the pilot's seat and reached over to the flight stick, hoping to send the cargo plane into a tailspin, only to have a hand shove her to the side.

Huma landed onto the second pilot's seat as the barrel of a Grach pistol pointed at her. "That's enough," Dee said, holding the weapon steady. His finger was on the trigger.

She caught her breath as she sat there, his gun pointed at her. She failed, she thought. Her best chance at stopping him, and she failed. Dee glared at her, no emotion on his handsome face, but yet, in his eyes, she saw disappointment there, even betrayal.

Silence followed between them, but something broke it. A smartphone had rested on the top of the cockpit navigation system. Its screen lit up, and the voice of none other than actor George Clooney sounded.

The song "I am a Man of Constant Sorrow" from the _O Brother Where Art Thou_ soundtrack played in the air, made all the more beguiling because of Clooney's sexy Southern twang. It was the phone's ringtone, and only a single name was displayed on the screen.

A knowing realization crossed Dee's face, and seeming to have recognized the song, he lowered his gun and turned to the screen with eyes wide. "Father?" he said, knowing that _O Brother Where Art Thou_ was his dad's favorite movie. She raised herself up in her seat and could only look at both Dee and the ringtone playing smartphone.

He quickly grabbed the phone and looked at it as though he couldn't believe the call came. Then, he pressed on the touchscreen, and the stern face of the square jawed Mitt Romney appeared on the screen.

"Father," Dee Romney repeated.

"Hi, son," Mitt said.

Dee didn't reply. He only looked at the screen with something like awe.

"I know I haven't been the best father," Mitt said with pain marking his eyes. "But please, son, whatever you're doing, please stop. There are more important things than winning an election."

Dee brushed his hand against his hair. "I did it for you," he said to his father.

"I know," Mitt said back. "And . . . I love you, son," he said at last. Mitt Romney's visage vanished, and the screen turned dark.

"I did it for you," Dee repeated, still staring at the smartphone screen. Huma didn't know what to say.

"Dee . . ."

He wiped his eyes. "I have to stop this," he said without looking at her. Guilt, though, was clear on his face.

He sat down in the pilot's seat and took control of the flight stick, turning it to the right. "There might still be time," he said as the plane veered away from its path.

Huma understood. She leaned against the passenger seat and finally exhaled. It was over.

Suddenly, the flight stick veered sharply to the left, lurching the plane as it did so, throwing both Huma and Dee off to the side of their seats.

Huma looked at Dee with confusion, but he too seemed to be as confused as her. The flight stick, it continued to turn until it righted itself as though it was under remote . . .

Dee grabbed the flight stick again and tried to turn it back to the right, but whatever he did, it remained locked in place.

"What's happening?" she asked him.

Dee was speechless; he glanced at the cockpit controls. "It's on auto-pilot," he said in alarm, fiddling with the controls on the navigation system and the throttle levers to no effect. "It doesn't respond to anything I—"

"Did you really think I'll let you get away?" the familiar accent of #2 sounded over the COSA communication system.

Huma glanced over at Dee, but he too didn't know what was going on. The plane, meanwhile, continued on its trajectory, and if she didn't know any better, the hurricane clouds seemed to be getting stronger.

#2 laughed derisively. "I had a feeling you might betray me, Dee," he said. "No matter," he continued. "The auto-pilot will continue on its planned route . . . Target New York City."

Dee wrenched on the flight stick, but it remained stuck.

"A shame to lose you, Dee, but you've done your part," he said. "Oh and, Huma, watch that President of yours . . ."

The voice cut out, and Huma could only sit there, confused at the turn of events. What was he talking about?

Dee banged on the instrument panel. "I've lost control," he said in panic even as he still tried to fiddle with the controls. "It's not my plane anymore."

•••

The Situation Room erupted in cheers. They had seen the hurricane continue to veer away from the city, and the assembled National Security Council clapped and cheered at what had happened with some even hugging each other. Smiles had erased their concerned frowns. It seemed that the worst was over.

President Obama finally let down his guard, and for the first time since the Benghazi incident, he could relax, at least for a little bit. Vice President Joe Biden came over to him with a big smile on his face.

"Now that's a big f# &% deal," he said, giving him a bro hug, a clasp on one hand followed by a one-armed hug.

Obama couldn't help but smile as well. He instantly thought of Hillary to thank her for all she's done. Huma's safe too, but they had to make sure of that. "Looks like we've—"

"What the . . ." someone in the room said.

Both he and Joe turned, and he saw Secretary of Defense Panetta along with more and more people starting to stare at the screen. Obama noticed it too.

Where before the swirling hurricane on the eastern seaboard shifted to the right towards the Atlantic Ocean, the hurricane now veered back to its original course all the way to the mainland.

General Dempsey put the phone down on the conference table. His haunted face showed clearly what they already knew. "Sandy's heading straight for New York," he said.

•••

"There has to be another way!" Huma cried out. In front of her in the cargo hold, Dee was stoic. Over in the cockpit, at the front of the HAARP plane, the pilot's seat was empty. The auto-pilot had taken full control of the aircraft.

The HAARP array was out of their control as well while the metallic barrels with red cables that snaked out of them continued to spew out the chemtrails outside.

"If I destroy this plane," he said. "The city might ride out the storm."

Dee had told her of his plan, that there was no other way, but Huma wanted to save him. He was still a US agent like her. "We just need to think, come up with another—"

"No," Dee interrupted, finally getting frustrated. "After what I've done . . ." He gulped, trying to control his emotions. "There are some things you can't change," he said. "No matter how much we want it to."

Huma finally let the matter go. In his eyes, she saw there was no changing his mind. Throughout this whole ordeal, Dee had been an adversary, but these last few moments, they had worked together. It seemed so cruel for fate to be like this. He had already decided, she thought, and she simply looked down and nodded.

When all was ready, Huma jumped out of the HAARP Plane. A parachute strapped to her back, she continued her descent as wind rushed against her face.

In the eye of the hurricane, she didn't suffer the dangerous gale force winds beyond the eyewall. Here, in the eye, it was almost . . . peaceful.

She continued her descent, and behind her, finally, the HAARP plane exploded in a fiery ball. The blast reverberated everywhere. Yet, she continued to fly down.

"Goodbye, Dee," she said. Down on the seas below, an aircraft carrier, battling the rocky waves, sailed in. Jets had cleared the runway, but already the flight crew readied for her arrival, placing a red target marker on the flight deck and waving their arms into the air.

They awaited her landing.


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

 _THE WHITE HOUSE_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _DECEMBER 11, 2012_

A single Presidential Medal of Freedom, opened prominently in its velvet medal case, remained on the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. Hillary and three other agents faced President Obama, all standing erect and stoic as they received their awards. The families of the men as well as Hillary's aides, Cheryl, Jake, Philippe, and Dan, watched in silence behind them.

"For great service and honor to the United States of America," Obama said, pinning the Medal of Freedom to the suit jacket of a DSS agent, who only looked ahead, quiet but proud.

Obama returned back to the Resolute desk and picked up the last Medal of Freedom. Hillary gulped knowing that she was next. She hated getting all this attention. She was a workhorse not a show horse, dammit.

It had been a few weeks since the end of the Benghazi incident. Hurricane Sandy hit the tri-state area later that day and attacked New York. The damage was severe, billions in property losses, and tragically, many lives were lost. They did all they could, though, and prevented what could have been a worse disaster.

President Obama won his reelection as well in a resounding victory over Mitt Romney, who on election night gave a gracious concession speech to the reelected President. However much she disagreed with Mitt's politics, he was and always will be a gentleman and good family man.

The ensuing weeks had been a fairly quiet one, relatively speaking. In her other job as Secretary of State, her efforts helped broker a ceasefire between the Israelis and Palestinians, and now, her time as Secretary of State was ending. It had been a rollercoaster four years, and the farewell tour she embarked on, visiting several countries in multiple nations, further placed in her mind how much of an honor her other job has been.

"Hillary," Obama said as he held the star-shaped Medal of Freedom. He held a hint of a smile on his lips. He was proud of his DSS agent and sometime Secretary of State as well.

"For great service and honor to the United States of America," he said. Hillary straightened herself as Barack pinned the medal to the lapel of her pantsuit jacket. Then, he leaned over to her ear. "Thank you," he whispered. "For everything." He gave her a peck on the cheek.

Obama finished the proceedings with one final speech commending them for all they've done and hoping this was not the last medal ceremony that he'll see them, and then, with the proceedings truly ended, the families joined the agents. One agent's wife kissed her husband rapturously, while another agent's family took a picture with the President. The third agent's family hugged one another and conversed quietly next to the marble bust of Abraham Lincoln, which gazed down almost forlorn.

Hillary went to her Hillaryland aides. "So how many medals do you have now?" Philippe asked with a mischievous smile. "Three or is it four?"

She could only shake her head at the gentle ribbing. She never did get used to receiving such accolades and being the center of attention.

"No one's counting," Cheryl Mills said. In a women's business suit, she already held in her hand a folder with sheafs of paper inside detailing the next item on their itinerary as Jake and Dan hovered in the background.

Hillary saw the anxious Cheryl and surmised they were already running late. She went over to Barack, said her thanks and goodbyes, and soon, they walked down the hall of the West Wing to head to the entrance of the White House where their State Department-issued Cadillac DTSs waited.

"So how does it feel to save the day yet again?" Philippe said good-naturedly. He had a glint in his eye, obviously enjoying ribbing his boss.

Hillary gave him a bemused look and tried to hide her smile, though Cheryl beside her gave him a fiercer and more displeased frown. Philippe bit his lip and glanced innocently around.

As much as she wanted to believe Philippe that all was well, she was afraid that Cheryl was right. They managed to stop Dee, but there was still much work yet to be done. #2 was still out there, and she was as surprised as anyone at Huma's debriefing: that he had taken over the plane after Dee had a change of heart.

Then, there's the whirlwind final weeks left of her tenure as Secretary of State. She still had to make sure her reforms touching on women and girls especially Melanne's position as Ambassador-at-Large for Global Women's Issues were institutionalized at State. Such bureaucratic reforms didn't get as much attention in the White House as her spy missions, but it still mattered. Women's rights matter.

They made it to the Grand Foyer of the White House where outside the impressive dark wood double doors waited their Cadillac DTSs. A grand piano stood in the far corner as Hillary stopped on the tessellated marble floors.

"Well, that was an interesting day," she said to them. There was still much to be done, but it'll have to wait. "Go home guys," she said. She stifled a yawn as fatigue got to her.

They all nodded back, but Hillary noticed Cheryl holding another velvet medal case in her hand. It wasn't hers since she asked Barack to send it later. That medal could only be for someone else . . .

"Say, why didn't Huma come to the ceremony?" she asked them, surmising the medal belonged to her.

Cheryl held up the velvet case holding the Medal of Freedom and looked quizzically at it. "She's at The Building," she said, frowning that Huma didn't join in the festivities. "Said she had unfinished business . . ."

•••

 _HARRY S. TRUMAN FEDERAL BUILDING_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _DECEMBER 11, 2012_

In her office on the seventh floor of the State Department, Huma stared at the screen of her desktop computer. The screen contained the translated documents captured from the Siachen Glacier Base. She didn't know why she was reading these documents, but something was bothering her.

Huma stopped reading and rubbed her eyes, a consequence of staring too much at a screen. Her office was nondescript, especially compared to her boss's, but it served its purpose. Outside, automobiles rode by on Third Street, and the cityscape of midrises that constituted much of DC spread out onto the horizon. Several framed pictures sat prominently on her fairly messy desk: one of Anthony, her baby, and a picture of a younger her with then Senator Hillary and President Bill Clinton, smiling at the camera.

She rolled back on her desk chair and reached down to take out a Dasani water bottle from her Chanel handbag. If she was honest with herself, it was what #2 said about the President that bothered her. Why would he say that about the President? she thought as she pressed the water bottle to her lips. The cool waters quenched her dry throat.

The memory came clear in her mind.

" _Oh and, Huma,"_ she remembered #2 saying on the HAARP Plane. " _Watch that President of yours."_

She still had no idea why he would make that warning, and the tone in his voice, it held a knowing quality as though he wanted to spill the secret but couldn't for any number of reasons.

Huma placed the water bottle down on her desk. That was the second time someone accused the President as someone to watch out for, first her "informant" and now #2. She shook her head. Just a coincidence, she thought.

As she screwed the cap back on the water bottle, her gaze fell on the picture with her and Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. Her with a Senator and a President . . .

She gazed again at the picture, and a trouble thought intruded into her mind. Obama wasn't the only President she knew . . .

•••

 _EMBASSY ROW_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _DECEMBER 11, 2012_

For what seemed like a godsend, Hillary rested on her beige couch in the living room of her Washington home, Whitehaven. She had just returned home to Embassy Row and haven't had time to change from her pantsuit yet. As she relaxed, she picked up the remote from the coffee table and turned on the flat panel television.

Time for some HGTV, she thought eagerly.

"Which house will they choose?" the lady's voice announced on the television. The TV was already on HGTV when it turned on. The next images showed House number one, two, and for a change of pace, a condo for number three.

On the screen, a woman and her husband sat on a patio outside. "What do you think?" the woman asked. The husband gazed stiffly at his wife.

"I don't know, what do you think?"

Hillary didn't know and leaned forward on the couch, wondering what house the young couple would choose.

Bill peered in from the hall. "Thought I heard you here," the former President said. He wore a suit, and oddly enough, he did not smile when he greeted her.

"Oh hi, Bill," she said, keeping one eye on the TV, but apparently, the network moved on to the next show, this time an international version of the same house show. Guess she'll never find out what house they chose, she thought.

Bill entered the living room, his leather shoes tapping on the hard wood floor. "Didn't expect you so soon . . ."

Bill sat down beside her. "So what have you been up to?" he asked.

"Not much," she said, focusing on the television show. The screen showed another young couple visiting the canals of Amsterdam. "Secretary of State stuff mostly. Haven't been sent on another mission yet," she continued, still watching the TV. "You?"

Hearing the question, Bill shook his head disdainfully. "Someone from the DNC called me, something about attending an event for a county chair in Pennsylvania." He laughed scoffingly. "Can you believe it? Already after the election, and people are already asking for advice and help," he continued, and then he sighed. "I say they should just stay put and leave me alone."

The diatribe made Hillary turn her head. It wasn't like Bill to say that. He loved politics and would never grouse about attending some party function. This time, the TV was the furthest thing from her mind.

"They called earlier last week, trying to book me for some Jackson Jefferson dinner," he complained. "Ugh."

Hillary only watched her husband in quiet shock. Then, she noticed his hand, and it clicked in her head. His hands, so strong and firm, she loved so much, they weren't shaking at all . . .

"You're not Bill," she said almost in a whisper.

The former President caught those words, and a momentary frown appeared on his lips. "What?" he asked, smiling again in an easygoing manner.

Hillary stood up from the couch and took a step back. "You're not Bill," she said.

Bill got up as well. "What are you talking about?" he asked coming over to her as though trying to give her a hug.

Quickly, she grabbed a lamp that was on the end table and held it up as a shield. "You're not Bill," she said, full of certainty.

"It's me," the President said. "Come here, give me a hug," he said.

"I don't know who you are," she said, still holding up the lamp in front of her. It was his hands that tipped her off. Bill loved to meet people so much and signed so many autographs that he damaged his hands, causing them to shake. As he held out his hands, this person, this imposter's hands were steady.

"Where's my Bill?" she asked, her voice breaking. Tears began to form in her eyes.

All pretenses gone, his smile vanished, and only antipathy remained. "All right, Heeellarry," he snarled, his accent changing noticeably from Southern to Middle Eastern. "I wondered how long it would take you to finally figure it out."

Hillary backed up and held the lamp in front of her as her only weapon. Her mind whirled at what had just happened. She was under attack in her own home and Bill. Where was Bill?

"My master planned it all from the beginning," he said. A sneer on what was clearly Bill's face. "And you Americans fell for it like the willing dogs that you are." He took a step forward. "Now your use is at an end . . ."

To Hillary's horror, the man who looked like Bill reached to the side of his neck and pierced the skin with his fingers. Then, he tore off the apparent mask to reveal a Middle Eastern man beneath even as the latex remnants of his disguise jutted out from the neck.

In the imposter's eyes, there was nothing but hatred for her, and reaching into his suit jacket, he pulled a knife. "Die, American witch!" he cried out fanatically as he charged at her.

•••

Huma ran out of the State Department Building onto the curved drive entranceway. Ever since the Kenyan and Tanzanian embassy bombings in the late 90s, crash bollards, made of steel, had been placed there for security purposes especially to prevent car bombs.

It was President Clinton who was the mole. She didn't have anything other than a suspicion, but she was sure of it. She didn't know what happened, but she had to warn her boss. Calls to her boss went unanswered.

Unlike many parts of DC, tourists didn't visit the State Department all that much preferring instead the more popular sights like the White House or the National Mall. True to form, only State Department employees milled in and out of building and on the plaza. A few looked at her quizzically, wondering perhaps what she was doing.

Huma looked out. She needed a taxi, but all she found were passing cars and a bike or two. She thought about flagging a bike but decided against it.

A taxi, she thought. That was her best bet. Quickly, she ran straight for the National Mall where taxis simply milled about in popular tourist spots like the Washington Monument or the Lincoln Memorial. It was late afternoon, but they should still be around.

Hold on Mrs. Clinton, she thought as she left the block-long State Department and ran down the street. The National Mall was on the other side. I'm coming.

•••

" _AAAAHHHHH!"_ the imposter screamed fanatically as he plunged the knife straight at Hillary, but she managed to block the knife with the lamp she held. She pushed back with the lamp, forcing him back, and then threw it. If the tabloids could see her now, she thought . . .

The imposter Bill Clinton deflected the lamp easily with his arm, sending it shattering to the floor.

Hillary saw her chance and ran for the door, only to hear the imposter scream again. He threw the knife, sending it straight for her.

She ran past as the knife arced and impaled itself in the partition wall. She didn't have time to think about it. Making it out to the foyer, the door was in her sights, but she winced as a pain seared in her head.

"Gotcha," the imposter said, grabbing onto her hair.

He began to drag her back into the living room. "Nuh uh, Heeellarry," he said, but she already had her counterattack ready.

Ignoring the pain, she grabbed his hand on top of her head, turned her body into his side, wrenching his arm inwards into him, and then, with his grip loose, she grabbed his jaw from behind and pulled him down, causing him to fall back and thud onto the floor.

She has to escape now, she thought. The Secret Service was just outside . . .

She had made it a few steps forward only to have the imposter grab onto her foot. Uh oh, she thought. The attack made her lose her balance, sending her crashing to the floor.

Her arms and body screamed in pain, absorbing the fall, and there was something else as well. The imposter, grabbing onto her foot, made her lose her shoe. Definitely not a Nicholas Sarkozy, she thought as she continued to reel from the pain, referring to the chivalrous President of France.

The imposter caught up to her and grabbed onto her hair once more.

She winced again as he picked her up almost with ease. "Now you will die, Hillary," he said, his gaze centering maliciously on the coffee table. "By my hand."

His hand still grasping at her hair, he took her over to the coffee table. Then, he slammed her head against the glass table, her head violently thudding against it, causing cracks on the glass.

"Die, Hillary, Die!" he cried out. He slammed her head again, this time drawing blood. It oozed down her face and she could taste the irony tang of it in her mouth.

Again and again, he slammed her head on the glass coffee table with Hillary increasingly dazed and seeing only a blur.


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

The taxi pulled up on a brick colonial house in Embassy Row. As Huma well knew, it was called Whitehaven, Mrs. Clinton's Washington, DC home. She'd traveled on this dead end street, home after handsome home of the embassies of foreign nations; been here many times before but not like this.

Two Secret Service agents, in black suits and sunglasses, already held out their hands in front of them even before Huma could get to the door.

"Whoa, whoa," the Secret Service agent said as she got out of the taxi. He had a buzz cut, and he was none too happy to see here. Like usual, their black security van was parked right outside of Whitehaven with the Danish Embassy, a sleek modernist structure of glass and steel, across from Hillary's house.

"Let me in," Huma said hurriedly. "It's an emerge—"

"The President doesn't want any visitors," the bald and fit African American secret service agent said back, a frown on his face.

"The Secretary," Huma replied as urgently as she could. She took a step forward, but the agents blocked her path. "She's in grave danger," she continued, becoming more and more flustered.

The agents both exchanged a glance. "We've been here the whole day," the agent with the buzz cut said back. "Trust us, we'd know if something was up." He placed a hand on Huma's elbow and led her out. "Go on now."

Huma looked over her shoulders to Whitehaven, its door closed and window curtains drawn, as they led her away from the house.

She can't waste any more time, she thought. Her boss was in danger, she just knew it. She had to act.

"I'm sorry," she said. Huma immediately struck the abdomen of the secret service agent, causing him to double over, and then threw him over her shoulder. His body crashed to the ground in an _oomph,_ and Huma followed it up by striking him in the chest, injuring him even more.

Not expecting the attack, the African American agent only widened his eyes at what he saw, but Huma immediately attacked before he could react. She grabbed his arm and threw him over her shoulder, followed by a strike to the side of his neck.

She didn't give herself time to feel guilty. Instead, Huma left the injured agents and ran to the front door.

Locked.

She tried again, but the knob still wouldn't open. Grabbing her standard issue SIG Sauer from the back waistband of her suit trousers, she pointed the gun at the doorknob.

Mrs. Clinton is going to kill me for this, she thought, but she fired anyway. The doorknob and wooden door splintered, and with a kick, Huma gained entry to Whitehaven.

Inside, the cream-colored walls and handsome furnishings bespoke of domestic tranquility. In the entrance passageway, a staircase led upward, and at first, Huma thought she was mistaken, but one glance at the living room and her fears came true.

She looked around panicked. It looked like a fight had occurred in the room. The beige couch and seats were all askew while the glass coffee table lay shattered. An overturned lamp littered the floor, and most ominously, blood stained the rug. Huma gulped at the wreckage, but one thing was missing, her boss was still nowhere to be found.

She ran into the sunroom. It was her boss's favorite room, an addition that Mrs. Clinton and President Clinton added in the mid 2000's that was close to the pool out back and the nature of the backyard. She knew the agents could come in any second, but she ran to the sunroom anyway. There, the trail of destruction continued. The world got to see the sunroom during the "I'm in" YouTube video announcing Clinton's entry into the White House race in 2007, but now the peaceful tranquility of the room: the seats, the deer stand lamp in the corner, President Clinton's Chihuly glass keepsakes on the mantle tops were all upended. Her thoughts raced wildly. What happened here?

A trudging sound snapped her attention to the adjoining hall where it led to the kitchen, which like the rest of the house was tastefully decorated with white borders on the kitchen cabinetry and flowers on the window sill above the sink. Huma instantly raised her SIG Sauer in front of her.

She took a step towards the kitchen, but she stopped. Someone had appeared.

It was Hillary, and she was a mess.

She was glassy eyed as she trudged forward. A gash marked her forehead, dripping blood down on the side of her head. Her long blonde hair was matted and untidy, and her pantsuit was frayed and torn. Hillary didn't seem to notice anyone else in the room, only staring blankly ahead, but she trudged forwards step by step until a moment later, she collapsed to the floor.

"Mrs. Clinton!" Huma cried out. She tried to catch her, but her boss's body thudded to the wooden floor before she could get to her. Quickly, she hurried to her side and propped her head on her lap.

Huma wiped the matted hair off of her boss's face, but there was nothing she could do. Her boss was out cold.

Panic started to set in, but then something caught her eye. In the kitchen, by the center island, a man lay dead on the floor. For a moment, she thought he was an older white man, but she noticed at his head and neck, the remnants of a torn latex mask revealing a Middle Eastern face.

The man's eyes lay open with a dead stare, and on his neck were welts including nail marks around the sides of his esophagus.

The man was choked to death.

•••

 _THE WHITE HOUSE_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _OCTOBER 11, 2012_

Seated behind the Resolute desk in the Oval Office, President Obama read the report in his hand. General Dempsey and Admiral McRaven, both in their respective military uniforms, stood in front of the desk. They had just placed the classified documents on the President's desk, documents that Obama was now reading.

"As you can see, Mr. President," the general said, "We may have found #2's whereabouts." Beside him, Admiral McRaven's grave expression denoted the gravity of the situation; that it was likely troops would be sent in harm's way.

The manila folder lay open in Obama's hands, and he leafed through the documents one by one. The current page revealed a black and white overhead satellite image of a rugged, almost barren land. A mountain stood prominently in the center, but roads ringed the mountain and some inexplicably led into the mountain itself at various points. At the bottom, a caption read "Fordow Nuclear Enrichment Facility."

Obama already recognized the name. The CIA had revealed this clandestine facility in 2009, and with then UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown and then French President Nicholas Sarkozy, they announced the existence of the nuclear enrichment facility, much to the world's shock. Now, he wondered why #2 would choose this place as a hiding spot.

He looked at both military men in front of him. "Iran?" he asked.

•••

 _NEW YORK PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL_ _  
_ _NEW YORK CITY_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _DECEMBER 13, 2012_

Hillary lay on the hospital bed, eyes closed and a white blanket up to her waist. Huma, Cheryl, Jake, Dan, and Philippe waited by her side. Huma sat in a chair right beside the hospital bed reading a magazine next to a table filled with well wishes and gifts including a teddy bear as Cheryl and Jake waited by the door, absently checking on their BlackBerrys. Jake himself leaned his back against the wall as he did so. Dan and Philippe sat on a couch by the window blankly watching the small LCD television screen propped up against the wall. It seemed the noise of the city outside didn't reach the confines of Hillary's single occupancy hospital room. All was quiet, almost funereal.

At last, Hillary, in a hospital gown, stirred. It was a blur at first, but carefully, she opened her eyes.

Huma noticed first, and she put down her magazine and reached Hillary's side. The rest noticed Huma, and they too stood up to see what was going on.

Hillary couldn't see anything, and then, as her vision cleared, she saw a familiar face. "Huma?" she asked. She spoke too soon. Other faces appeared, Cheryl, Jake, everybody all looking down worried.

"We're here," Huma replied. "You need rest."

"What . . ." She was about to ask what had happened, but her train of thought grew hazy, mercurial. She remembered an assassin in Whitehaven, a fight . . .

Her head swam. Jake and Dan helped prop her up against the bed, but that seemed to make it worse.

"Don't worry about your cover story," Philippe said. The faint voice of a television reporter echoed in the background.

" _Hillary Clinton has been admitted to New York Presbyterian suffering from a concussion caused by a stomach virus . . ."_

"A few Republicans came close to breaking our cover," he added. "But I threw them off the scent." He beamed proudly at that only to be met by a frown from Cheryl. Philippe quieted down, though he had a slightly annoyed look at Hillary's Chief of Staff.

"Look," Dan said. He picked up a few cards from the small table and waved them in front of her. "Your predecessors sent get well wishes. This one's from Condi," he continued, rifling through the various get well soon cards. "And this one's from Albright. Kissinger sent the best one." He gestured to the teddy bear sitting adorably in the middle of all the cards. It held a rose in its hand, and on its tummy, it read "Hope You're OK!"

Huma and Cheryl glanced to see who would speak first, and Cheryl took it up. "We're looking into the security breach," she informed her.

Security breach? Hillary thought. Then, she remembered. Bill!

There was an imposter. He had attacked her. Now she didn't know where he was. "Where's Bill?" she asked groggily. She faintly remembered him by her side holding her hand . . .

Everyone in the room quieted down, and some glanced to the floor at the mention of the former President's name.

"President Clinton has been taken by the Iranians," Huma explained. "They've been working with #2 and Al Qaeda."

Hillary couldn't believe what she heard. "But he was . . . here," she said.

"The CIA already sent his body double here to keep up appearances with the press," Huma added, her eyes crestfallen. "The President has already ordered a rescue plan. We should get a briefing soon."

"But this operation will require more planning," Cheryl added. "Iran is a much tougher country to infiltrate."

Hillary heard their explanations, but she didn't want to believe it. All she knew was that Bill needed her. She tried to get out of bed, but Huma and Dan held her back.

"What are you doing?" Huma asked, holding Hillary's shoulders back.

"I'm going," she said. "Bill needs me."

"You can't," Huma said back. "You need your rest."

"I can't let you guys go without me. It's Bill," she said. Already, so many nightmares pervaded her thoughts. He was out there all alone in enemy hands. What were they doing to him? Torture? Was he even alive? His heart, she thought. It's the most fragile thing about him. "It's Bill," she repeated, though in her weakened state, she couldn't fight off both Huma and Dan's determination to keep her in bed. Their combined strength gradually forced her back.

"I already asked," Huma explained, gently pushing Hillary to the hospital bed. "The President gave his permission. We won't leave without you. He said he needed his best agent on the job."

That admission calmed her. It meant, though, she had to recuperate as fast as possible. "Thank you," she said.

The room quieted down. There was nothing left to say. Oh, Bill, Hillary thought as she slid back to bed. With his busy schedule and her twin jobs, they could only see each other in spare moments the past few years, but there was always a connection there. Now, the connection wasn't there anymore. Bill, she thought, pining for him again. It had always been the case. She had always needed him more than he needed her.

 **•••**

 _HARRY S. TRUMAN FEDERAL BUILDING_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _JANUARY 19, 2013_

"She's late," Dan Schwerin asked, standing by the worktable close to the center aisle of Hillaryland Ops on the seventh floor of the State Department. With the screens that lined the walls and the main viewscreen at the front of the chamber turned off, the room was dark with only the faintest light emanating from the computer monitors on both sides of the center aisle.

"What else is new?" Philippe said sarcastically, sitting tiredly at the computer worktable.

"She'll come," Cheryl said. She and Huma were side by side at the front of the room by the viewscreen while Jake was on the opposite side, stacks of reports already in hand like a dutiful student. "She always does."

"She's really late," Jake piped up.

"You're pretty new to Hillaryland," Philippe said. "You should have been there during—"

Behind them, in the corner of the room, the door into Hillaryland Ops began to open. Slowly at first, the door finally opened to its full extent, bathing the room with so much light from the hallway that it seemed to be almost blinding. A figure stood amongst the light, a shadowy silhouette of a woman with long blonde locks and wearing a pantsuit.

Hillary Rodham Clinton stepped foot into her namesake Ops. Much remained the same except now, Fresnel Prism glasses framed her eyes. Everyone stood up, all eyes on her.

"I had a concussion guys," she said to them with a smile. "I didn't come back from the dead."

That seemed to lighten the mood.

Hillary made her way towards her aides, but not before Dan Schwerin came up to her discreetly. "I've written your farewell speech," Dan whispered.

"Not now, Dan," she whispered back.

"Well, I just felt kind of left out lately . . . a secret agent doesn't have much use for," Dan stopped himself. "Oh never mind."

Dan left her side and went back to the computer worktable.

Hillary continued on and joined up with her top aides. "Glad to have you back," Cheryl said. Huma nodded alongside Cheryl. She smiled back at them warmly.

"Beginning mission briefing," Philippe said, pressing a button on the keyboard, causing the viewscreen at the front of the room to flicker on.

President Obama appeared on the screen. Hands folded in front of him, he sat behind the Resolute desk, the stars and stripes of the United States of America behind him.

"Good evening, everyone," he said. He glanced around. "Hillary, Huma," he continued, nodding at the both of them.

Hillary stood up a little straighter to face her Commander in Chief . . . and the man who beat her for the Democratic nomination.

Obama began his briefing. "Intelligence has tracked #2 to this remote location in Iran." The President pressed a button on the speakerphone, which caused his image to minimize to make room for a larger satellite image. "The Fordow Enrichment Facility," he explained. The satellite image didn't reveal much, merely a rugged land of mountains and sparse land. "As you know, the actual facility is buried deep inside this mountain," the voiceover of Obama said as a reticule targeted a prominent mountain at the center of the satellite image. Active arrows pointed to three tunnel entrances that seemed to lead deep into the mountain.

"Our intelligence also indicated the former President . . . Bill is held at this facility."

Hillary gulped at hearing the name of her husband. The two men had a contentious relationship that was just now healing.

The viewscreen returned to the full image of the President behind the Resolute desk. "Your mission is to rescue the former President as well as to stop the—" He paused for a moment, the gravity of what he was about to say evident on his face.

"The Sands of Allah."

Hearing the words, Huma looked up with even more concentration than before. Hillary wasn't expecting that either. She listened more closely to what Barack was about to say.

"The Revolutionary Guard of Iran as well as Al Qaeda teamed up to create this technology." Obama pressed a button on the speakerphone again, and the screen switched to a video. An ocean, tranquil and peaceful, now appeared on the viewscreen.

"They intend to detonate a tsunami bomb . . ." The video dove into the depths of the ocean. Past fish and other wildlife of the ocean as well as seaweed and other undersea fauna, the camera finally rested on a single bomb placed on the ocean floor. "The Sands of Allah," Obama's voiceover explained.

On the bomb, a timer, the seconds in stark red, counted down:

3 . . .

2 . . .

1 . . .

The bomb exploded, disturbing the waters. The camera followed the shock wave until it breached the ocean surface. There, a wave formed, gradually gaining strength until it formed a massive tsunami like a wall of water as high as a skyscraper that extended to both ends of the horizon. "The tsunami will travel all the way to our shores." The viewscreen switched once more to a map of the eastern seaboard of the United States, the mini skylines of New York and Washington, DC specifically on the map.

"The Eastern Seaboard," Obama explained. "That's their target, and they're using the former President as a human shield against any aerial strike."

At last, Obama appeared once more on the viewscreen. "You are to infiltrate this facility and neutralize this threat. I don't need to tell you what will happen if we fail."

He glanced around Hillaryland Ops, at everyone in the darkened room. "Good luck, everyone," he said to them. "And may God bless America,"

Hillary let the gravity of the situation weigh on her. All her aides, too, seemed to be receiving the information with a combination of trepidation and resoluteness.

Obama wasn't done. The viewscreen didn't cut off, and he was still there behind the Resolute desk. "Everyone, if you will, please, I'd like to speak to Hillary alone."

That caught her attention. Her aides all exchanged glances at one another and then a few at Hillary.

She didn't know what Barack wanted with her now. She hoped it wasn't to dissuade her from going on the mission. She felt fine—more than fine actually. It was only a concussion . . .

One by one, Dan, Philippe, Jake, Cheryl, and at last, Huma left the room. Obama didn't say anything until Huma finally closed the door to Hillaryland Ops behind her. Satisfied, he seemed to be less stilted, more informal. A friendly and caring visage looked down on Hillary.

"Are you sure about this?"

Her suspicions were proven right. Barack did want to dissuade her from going. "I'm sorry," she said. "I gotta go . . . for Bill."

"I'm just worried about you." Obama said, concern on his face. "You're more than my Secretary of State . . . you're my friend."

The compliment warmed her heart. Once they were the most bitter of enemies, and now, she almost laughed at such a twist of fate. Barack didn't have a league of rivals anymore, he had a league of friends.

"I'm fine, Barack," she said.

Obama nodded as though he was expecting the answer. "Be careful out there," he said quietly, and then, a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes and a quiet smile crossed his lips. "I need you here for 2016," he said with a wink.

Before she could quip back, the screen blacked out. Oh, that Barack, she thought as she stood in the dark, shaking her head with mild reproach.


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

 _SOMEWHERE ABOVE IRAN_ _  
_ _JANUARY 22, 2013_

The lettering on the plane clearly read UNITED STATES OF AMERICA as SAM, a Boeing C-32, flew through the Iranian skies. The plane sped through the dark night sky, and clouds whisked by, the quiet flight beguiling the mission Hillary and the rest of her DSS insertion team were about to take.

Hillary, now wearing contacts as a substitute for her Fresnel prism glasses, was inside her own private cabin located in the middle of the aircraft. The plane itself, usually used on official Secretary of State duties, doubled as a military plane. The official schematics included a cockpit, followed by the air flight crew's area, then the communications center, then Hillary's private cabin, next the Senior Staff area, and finally, the designated press area in seating akin to coach, but in the back of the plane, there was a secret cargo area for use only by DSS agents.

A cup of coffee rested untouched on her private desk as she looked wistfully out the plane window, hand on her chin. Outside, the night clouds rolled by like it was any other ordinary flight, like Bill was home safe and sound as always.

It wasn't true, though. They were on their way to Fordow, Iran where Bill was held, and they were tasked to destroy the Sands of Allah weapon, a mission that she didn't know if she was even coming back from. One thing was certain in her mind, though: she would lay down her life if she knew Bill was coming back.

The intercom sounded, and Hillary looked up to hear the message from the captain.

"Nearing target site," the intercom said.

She acknowledged the message and picked up her SIG Sauer to ready it for the battle ahead. As she checked on the clip of the gun, however, her eyes noticed a framed picture of Bill on her desk. Bill, in the photo, smiled a radiant smile accompanied by his lined, handsome face; his full, silver hair; and always, that light in his eyes.

She put the gun down on the desk. Oh, Bill, she thought, staring at the picture. Ever since, she'd heard the news it was like a part of her was missing. They'd been apart before, but it was different this time. She couldn't _feel_ him, like he was lost somewhere. A lump caught in her throat, and she tried to contain her emotions. The thing was, she thought laughing to herself, that he was probably coping better than she was. People always said how he was soft on the outside but tough on the inside while she was the exact opposite, and they were right. Bill had always been stronger than her.

The door opened slightly, and Hillary looked over to see who it was. Huma peeked in, she too seemed concerned. "It's time," she said.

Hillary nodded at her, and Huma left as quickly as she came in.

Her heart began to beat fast, but she breathed in to calm her nerves. She reached over and caressed her husband's framed picture. "I'm coming, Bill," she whispered, and with that, she grabbed her gun and put it the shoulder holster inside her pantsuit jacket.

She opened the door, and outside of her cabin, everyone busied themselves for the mission ahead. Her aides, Cheryl, Jake, and Dan faced each other on an executive table setup, turned to her, wordlessly expressing their concern. Farther up from her cabin, Philippe, with the other communications personnel, manned the communications center, a bank of computer consoles stuffed together for their use. At the back of the plane, the DSS agents filed down the cramped center aisle to head to the cargo bay.

She didn't say anything, there was nothing to say. Without a word, she inched her way down the center aisle, careful not to bump onto the non-DSS agents. Past the "Line of Death," a line that separated the press pool from the rest of the State Department personnel, she went, and at the end of the journey, a flight attendant held the door open into the cargo bay. The young woman said nothing, but she too knew the gravity of the mission.

Hillary gave a slight smile at the young woman, to show her appreciation. The flight staff could be unappreciated, but they provided their meals and tried to make them as comfortable as possible. They were as important to the mission as anyone else on this plane.

The young woman, a brunette, glanced away, though her eyes wandered back for a moment, eyes filled with admiration.

At last, Hillary entered the cargo bay where her fellow DSS agents already began to suit up for the High Altitude Low Opening or H.A.L.O jump. Some had finished wearing the flight suits on their bodies, helmets, and gas masks on their faces. They didn't say anything to her. As far as they were concerned, she was just another agent, and Hillary liked it that way.

"Mrs. Clinton," Huma said at the corner of the steel-walled cargo bay. She already had her flight suit on, and she stood by a crate where Hillary's own equipment rested.

Hillary went over, but it was Huma who opened the crate for her. Once more, no words were said as both of them suited up, first the flight suit, then the helmet, and then, finally the mask and goggles, though her aide only had the latter two to worry about.

Hillary didn't know how long they waited, standing there with the other DSS agents, saying nothing, all staring ahead at the payload door ramp waiting for it to open. It was like a dream, that's what it was, like a hazy dream . . .

At last, the rear payload door opened, carefully arcing down. A small slit at first, the gap then widened as the dark clouds became visible and the wind rushed in.

Hillary readied herself, knowing that thousands of feet below them, Bill was down there, all alone . . .

Perhaps seeing the concern in her eyes, Huma spoke up. "We'll get him back," she said.

She didn't reply, her eyes told Huma all about her gratitude.

The H.A.L.O jump began at last. The first of the DSS agents ran over and jumped over the edge and into the night sky. The rest of the DSS agents followed, and Hillary and Huma brought up the rear. One by one, they jumped over the edge, and finally, it was Hillary's turn. Huma jumped over first, and behind her, she ran and jumped . . .

All of them sped down to earth. Hillary opened her arms and feet wide as the cold air rushed at her skin and through her flight suit.

As she fell, the sight mesmerized her. Clouds came and went, and the night, the beautiful night, it seemed to cloak everything as though she was swallowed up in it. Though she had her gas mask on, the air was thin, and with the skies falling fast, Hillary dreamed . . .

In England, by a lake and a sunset over the horizon, Bill, a younger Bill, kneeled before her. He had a ring in his hand. "Will you marry me?" he asked, an earnest look on his face.

She remembered that. She stood there, confused and conflicted "Not now," she said, pain in her voice.

Another memory intruded. This time, she was alone in her old home in Fayetteville, holding her beautiful baby Chelsea in her arms, "You have to help me," she said to her infant daughter. "We have to work together."

The memory vanished, and another one appeared. This time, she was in Chicago, and the wide convention podium faced a large crowd who carried placards and signs that read "CHICAGO WELCOMES HILLARY" and "WELCOME HOME HILLARY." 1996 Democratic National Convention.

"Yes, it takes a village," she said to them.

The crowd erupted into applause, and the First Lady her began again. "And it takes a president . . ."

It swirled back into the recesses of her mind and onto another one. Bill in a gurney. It was his heart surgery, and as the nurses wheeled him away, she held onto his hand as long as she could until finally, their fingers no longer touched—

The parachute cord deployed, yanking her out of her reverie. As the parachute opened overhead, Hillary saw the sparse sands of Iran below, ground closing in . . .

•••

 _FORDOW NUCLEAR ENRICHMENT FACILITY_ _  
_ _FORDOW, IRAN_ _  
_ _JANUARY 22, 2013_

Close to the holy city of Qom, deep in the bowels of a mountain, Alessandra James shopped on her iPhone. She was in the Master Control Room of the Fordow Nuclear Enrichment Facility. A computer station occupied the front of the chamber with a window view overlooking the nuclear centrifuges, the metallic cylindrical objects spinning fast with deadly efficiency. Overhead lights illuminated the space as stone encapsulated the whole of the structure, several stalactites jutting down.

Alessandra, wearing a designer manteaux, something that Iranian women wear a lot of apparently, sat in a wheeled chair and poured all her attention on the smartphone screen, trying to tune out the argument around her.

"You said it would be ready by now," #2, in military fatigues and keffiyeh, cried out.

"We're already at capacity," a man argued back. His name was Achmed Javani, a colonel of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. "If you hadn't lost the HAARP array . . ."

Alessandra tuned them out. Their conversation was so boring, she thought.

If she was honest with herself, though, she was getting a bit of cabin fever. She hadn't been allowed to leave this mountain stronghold ever since they arrived in this country. Iran. Who names their country I-ran anyways, she thought annoyedly. She almost preferred the Himalayan base.

The place did have Wi-Fi, though, so she liked that. To her disappointment, Iran didn't have a Neiman Marcus or much shopping at all for that matter. They did make some lovely headscarves, but they weren't designer so she didn't wear them. She didn't want to seem like she was slumming even though she really was.

She sighed. At least the sex was good.

"The centrifuges are spinning as fast as they can!" Javani insisted. "They can't go any faster."

"Well, tell your men to work faster," #2 said, wagging his finger. Alessandra remembered how her man explained the plan, something about eclipsing 9/11 . . .

"The Americans could be coming here for all we know," #2 continued. "Especially that bitch, Hillary."

She caught that. Hillary was a bitch, she snorted. Her shoulder still felt the effects of their fight. Ugh, bitch.

"No need to worry," Javani said. He went over to a computer console connected to a wall of monitors. He typed on the console inputs, and the monitors turned on, revealing black and white closed circuit television security cam footage. It pointed to the tunnel entrances outside the mountain, all showing the dark of night and deserted dirt roads. "See?" he said, mockingly gesturing to the CCTV footage. "We are in no danger whatsoever."

The footage seemed to have mollified #2, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. "Pray that it remains this way," he replied. He put his arms on his hips and took a deep breath.

Alessandra once more tuned them out and returned to her phone. Ooh, those look like cute shoes, she thought, staring at a set of black stilettos. Too bad they didn't have a Bloomingdale's in Iran, she thought miffed.

As they all looked away from each other each lost in their own thoughts or in Alessandra's case, shopping, a slight burst of static scrambled the third monitor on the left . . .

•••

 _THE WHITE HOUSE_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _JANUARY 22, 2013_

Cheers and shouts rang in the Situation Room in the White House. The assembled National Security Council including Vice President Biden pumped their fist in the air or clapped as they faced the front of the room. The viewscreen was blank, however. Instead, they focused on the voice from the CIA on the other end.

"Successful insertion," the voice said.

At the head of the conference table, Obama breathed a sigh of relief. Still many more ordeals to go, he thought.

They had tasked an asset to implant a computer virus into the Fordow computer system. As it had an intranet as opposed to an internet, meaning their system was closed to the outside world, they couldn't remotely send the virus to the facility. Instead, they had to utilize one of their assets. If he had failed, their mission would have been over before it began.

The computer virus placed file video into the computer's CCTV footage so instead of seeing Hillary's drop team making landfall over Fordow's tunnel entrances, they saw old file footage of a quiet night instead.

Obama looked out at the NSC staff and Joe once more. They had become serious again, the effects of their initial victory already worn.

There was no doubt in Obama's mind that they were thinking what he was thinking. Now it's all up to Hillary, he thought.


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

The parachute in the air, emblazoned with the American flag, Hillary descended from the sky and finally onto the nighttime landscape of Fordow. Under cover of night, she landed by the side of a tunnel entrance as her parachute billowed down and the mountain loomed in the background.

Some of her compatriots were already there, and each of them, including Huma, took care to unhook their parachute packs and ready their weapons. Huma, herself, checked the ammo clip of her gun and unzipped her flight suit designed by Michael Kors.

Hillary did the same. With more DSS agents landing by her, she too unhooked the parachute's risers, leaving it on the ground, and unzipped her flight suit, revealing her battle pantsuit underneath.

This was it, she knew. The start of the mission. It wasn't going to be easy, she thought. A dual mission objective like this one, what would take precedence? If they had to choose only one, destroy the facility that housed the Sands of Allah or rescue Bill, she didn't want to think about what she would choose.

There she goes again, she thought. Second guessing herself. Sometimes, she wished she had more of Bill's optimism and trust, which can, as she often told him, sound naïve, but it did give you confidence. Maybe that's why he had so much of it.

Shaking all her doubts away, she took out her SIG Sauer from the shoulder holster inside her pantsuit jacket and addressed the DSS agents. "Mission A Place Called Hope is a go!" she said aloud.

As if on cue, a lone truck barreled down the dusty road. Its headlights beamed menacingly forward, but none of the DSS agents showed any sign of concern. This was all part of the plan.

The truck drove by, and silently each of the DSS agents clambered on. Hillary herself hung off the side of the passenger side door. Her hand held onto the side view mirror as the truck drove on from the dusty road and into the tunnel entrance.

The dark of night was replaced by the dark of the tunnel and the eerie glow of artificial light. The truck drove onwards to its destination, and Hillary, still hanging onto the side view mirror, took out a device from an inner pocket of her pantsuit jacket.

It looked like a device tray, but she pressed on the button, which revealed a hologram of the President seated at the Resolute desk. Borrowed from CNN, the hologram technology, she was told, would brief them of their mission.

Holo-Obama, the blue lighting making him look ethereal, sat seriously behind his desk to begin the mission briefing. "Good evening," holo-Obama said. "Your mission is to neutralize the Sands of Allah." Holo-Obama pressed a button on the Resolute desk speakerphone and instantly, his image was replaced by the holo-schematics of the facility itself, a warren of tunnels leading to many different chambers in the underground mountain facility. A bright red dot blinked at the center of the facility, a domelike structure and also, the largest chamber in the complex. "Huma, you and your team, are to head to the Master Control Room. Secure the room and destroy the centrifuges." The holo-schematic shifted to another chamber off to the right. "Hillary," the voice of holo-Obama said. "Intelligence indicates President Clinton is held here in this corridor." The holo-schematic transformed back to the image of holo-Obama. "Good luck," he said. "And may God bless the United States of America," he finished as the holo-image flickered off.

Hillary put the holo-device back into her pantsuit jacket's inner pocket, and with the wind from the truck's trajectory whipping her blonde hair freely, she looked onward as they ventured deeper into Fordow.

A moment later, the loading bay came into view. It was a fairly vast chamber with a steel blast-proof door at the center. Two Iranian Revolutionary Guardsman, in green military fatigues, stood guard at the facility.

The truck quickly pulled up, and thinking it was any other delivery shipment, the guardsmen walked up lackadaisically to the vehicle.

Hillary had other plans in store for them.

The first of the guardsmen widened his eyes as he saw Hillary point her SIG Sauer, with a silencer at the tip, directly at him.

One, two shots was all it took. The bullets made their mark, and the soldiers fell to the floor dead. Hillary and the other DSS agents hopped down from the truck and onto the loading bay.

As the DSS agents fanned out to secure the perimeter, she scanned the area, gun held high at the ready. So far so good, Hillary thought. There were no other guards.

The blast door at the center of the chamber was their next target. Past the other loading trucks and pallets of supplies, Hillary and Huma went up to the formidable looking entrance of the Fordow Nuclear Enrichment Facility.

Huma, who wore form-fitting black tactical gear for the mission, gazed up at the blast door concerned but determined. Hillary did the same.

"Let's get through with it," she finally said.

They went to their respective spots: Huma at the pronged hand wheel at the center of the blast door and Hillary to the wall close to her. With everything set, she nodded at her aide to begin, and quickly, Huma turned the hand wheel and pulled at the latch, carefully heaving open the gigantic blast door.

Open Sesame, Hillary thought, remembering the story of "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves" in the _Arabian Nights,_ a book she read back in Maine East High School. She knew, of course, they were in the historical land of Persia not Arabia, but she thought the comparison was apt.

At last, the blast door was fully open leading to a darkened walled corridor ahead. The rest of the DSS agents gathered by her, and she made a hand gesture, two pronged fingers locked at her eyes, then to them, and finally, to the inside the facility itself.

They understood, and leading the way, Hillary stepped into the corridor.

One step was all it took, however.

As soon as she did so, an ear piercing klaxon blared at the entire facility even as red siren lights spun close to the ceiling of the loading bay. Hillary cringed at the noise, crackling her ears.

Uh oh, she thought as the klaxon continued to wail. We're in trouble.

•••

The klaxon blared loudly inside the Master Control Room, and #2, Col. Javani, and Alessandra all looked up at the sound, confusion on their faces.

"What is that?" #2 asked.

Javani went off to the CCTV console and checked on the bank of monitors. Still, the monitors revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The cameras, both inside and outside of Fordow, continued to display an orderly, largely empty facility.

"I don't understand . . ." Javani said.

#2 shoved him out of the way and checked on the CCTV. Nothing as well, and he gave Javani a confused glance.

The phone rang.

#2 pressed a button on the speakerphone . . .

" _The Americans, they're here! Led by an old blonde woman!"_

Upon hearing it, a light of recognition came to #2's face. That could only be one person.

He went to the monitors again and typed on the console. There, he finally saw the source of his troubles. File footage planted in place of the actual footage. Typing again, he pressed enter. Looking up at the monitor, his mouth dropped at the sight.

The tranquil scene on the CCTV was now gone, replaced by agents scurrying through the various tunnels of Fordow. Some engaged in firefights, while others had already penetrated deeper into the facility itself. One monitor in particular, had Hillary Clinton and Huma Abedin, in grainy white video, hurrying through a tunnel armed with only their SIG Sauers.

He gritted his teeth at the sight of them.

"I don't know how this could be," Javani said incredulously.

"Well, we're obviously under attack," he said, gritting his teeth. He went over to the computer console and picked up his gun. "Best you arm yourself," he said coolly.

Alessandra came up to her lover. "What's going on?" she asked, almost embracing him.

"Stay here, my love," he said as he caressed her cheeks. Then, a devilish sheen intruded into his eyes. "I have a surprise for her . . ."

She watched him leave her, no doubt to battle Hillary.

•••

A Revolutionary Guardsman rounded a corner and pulled out his pistol. The gun fired two shots straight at Hillary.

"Watch out!" Huma cried out as she pushed her boss out of the way. As they both tumbled to the ground, the bullets barely missed Huma, who pointed her own SIG Sauer and fired back. Huma's bullets hit their mark. The four shots riddled the guardsman, and then, his life snuffed out, he crumpled to the floor.

On the ground beside her, her boss breathed hard. "Thanks," she said to her.

Huma didn't think that merited any thanks. She was only doing her duty after all.

She picked herself up and helped her boss up as well, and soon, they were on the move again.

They went down a long corridor, Fordow apparently having a multitude of them, until finally the came upon a split. She knew this was the end of the road for this leg of the mission.

Ahead, the split led in three directions while Hillary once more got the holo-device. The press of a button revealed the holo-schematics of the Fordow facility once more. A bright red dot pulsated in the middle of the facility and another one at another end where the detention area was located.

Huma knew as well they were going to split, but apprehension still marked her youthful face, obviously reluctant to leave her boss alone in a hostile area.

"Go," Hillary commanded, wiping sweat from her forehead. The facility was stuffy with not a lot of ventilation. NORAD this wasn't. "Disable the bomb," she said. "I have to rescue Bill."

Huma said nothing at first, clearly wanting to say something, but finally, she nodded. "Be safe," she said to her boss.

Holding her gun close, Huma made her way down the central corridor and left her boss. She didn't want to do it, but if anyone can save President Clinton, it was Mrs. Clinton.

Down the corridor, she went until she came upon a spartan stairwell. It was tucked in the corner, but as soon as she did so, she drew her gun in front of her.

On the other side of the SIG Sauer, a frightened Iranian scientist, a lab coated young man in his 30's who had ran up the stairs, reeled back from the weapon and raised his hands up in the air. "Don't shoot," he pleaded. "Don't shoot." A bead of sweat came down the side of his forehead.

Upon seeing him, Huma lowered her weapon. She wasn't a cold blooded killer even if the scientist did most likely work in the Iranian nuclear program. She only gestured with her gun, telling him to leave.

The grateful scientist bowed his head and scurried past her. Huma looked up again at the stairwell, she shouldn't be far off—

"Die!" a voice cried out.

Huma sensed the impending attack. The duplicitous scientist had apparently hidden a knife in his lab coat, and holding it high in the air, he lunged at her.

Her quick reflexes saved her life. She raised her Sig Sauer and fired a couple of shots, which made their mark on the unlucky scientist. Blood spurted on the lab coat at the entry wounds, and with his life extinguished, he thudded to the floor face down and dead.

Huma took a moment to collect herself. That was close, she thought, sometimes, she was entirely too trusting. She pressed on, though, and climbed the stairwell. It should be a straight shot then to the Master Control Room.

At the top of the stairs, she finally saw her destination. The corridor led straight to the centrifuge hall where the Master Control Room was located. Already, she could hear fighting and gunfire . . . as well as the crying shouts of dying men.

Gripping her gun, she ran down the corridor to join the battle. Running past the enclosure, she found the Centrifuge Hall, a vast chamber whose ceilings seemed to reach all the way to the top of the carved mountain, in chaos. Rangers and Revolutionary Guardsman engaged in firefights, some even in hand to hand combat even as the metallic cylindrical centrifuges, standing in rows as if in military formation, continued to spin dizzyingly on the premises. Bodies of both friend and foe lay in all directions with signs of grenade and bomb blasts evident on certain sections of the chamber. There was something else as well.

Female warriors, clad head to toe in tight-fitting black cloth with only a slit opening for their eyes, joined the fight as well. Blade in hand, they fought the Rangers as ferociously and fanatically as the men with them.

Huma knew who they were: an elite corps of female warriors in the Iranian army. They didn't have a name, only known to the West as the female ninja assassins of Iran.

Huma looked on ahead. A main pathway led to a set of stairs and into the nerve center, a circular room with curved windows like a watchtower. There, she could sabotage the main computers and put an end to the Sands of Allah.

Not waiting any longer, Huma ran down the prescribed pathway, two yellow lines marking its extremities, trying to dodge the fighting as best she could. She fired two shots at two fleeting forms of Iranians, before a form shrieked at her. From out of the centrifuge line, two female Iranian ninjas cried out and swung their sabers.

Huma barely had time to dodge the attack sending her into the centrifuge line itself. The female ninja followed her in swinging her deadly blade. Huma weaved in and out of the spinning centrifuges, trying to escape the blade. She tried to keep a clear shot, but the spinning centrifuges and the chaos all around—

Another female ninja lunged at her, but Huma caught her attack. Taking the attacker, who had a knife, by the shoulder, she fell back on the ground and with the lift of her feet, she threw the attacker over into the air and right onto a spinning centrifuge. She shrieked as her robe caught on the centrifuge and spun her first onto a second and then a third centrifuge, each time slamming her head onto the metal with a crunch and not ending her shrieks until the centrifuge itself stopped spinning from the extra weight.

The two female ninjas tried to take advantage of the situation, but Huma caught them. As they lunged at her, sabers raised up, she raised her SIG Sauer and fired at the both of them.

The bullets found their mark. In mid-lunge, blood spurted from the heads of the two ninjas, sending both of their bodies crashing to the floor and landing close to her feet.

She didn't have time to savor her victory. The sound of an explosion boomed somewhere in the facility, telling her to keep moving. She quickly left the dead bodies and climbed up the stairwell towards the Master Control Room, passing by the bodies of Revolutionary Guardsman and a few Army Rangers who had bravely tried to breach the nerve center.

The door was already open as she ran inside. To her surprise, upon making it to the Master Control Room, she found the place deserted.

Only a computer console greeted her: a unified workstation stretching from the nearest corner, which looked up at a bank of monitors, and stretching to the far end where a window overlooked the centrifuges in the hall below.

She thanked her luck and hurriedly, went up to the console on the far corner. Working quickly, she took out a flash drive, slid out the USB plug, and put it into the USB port of the computer console. The virus program stored inside the flash drive soon began to upload on a monitor embedded onto the console itself.

Come on, come on, she thought. As part of her mission, the virus program in the flash drive would hijack the Fordow computer system allowing her to sabotage the facility.

The upload meter finally neared its completion, and upon doing so, the monitor read:

INPUT COMMAND

She wasn't much of a computer whiz, but because of the briefing, she knew what to do. On the keyboard, she typed:

COMMENCE SCHEHERAZADE PROTOCOL

The input worked. It accepted the command, and the monitor now read:

UPLOAD COMMENCING . . .

Huma breathed in. Peering over the window, she checked on the centrifuges below. If the virus worked, the centrifuges, laid out in rows, should spin out of control denying the needed enriched uranium for the tsunami bomb.

She peered at the computer monitor where a bar inched along indicating its progress. She concentrated so hard on it as though she was helping it along and willing it to go faster.

Unbeknownst to her, the door to the Master Control Room swung slowly, revealing a concealed Javani. The colonel raised his gun methodically, straight at the unsuspecting Huma.

•••

The heat of Iran caused sweat to trail down Hillary's forehead and into the collars of her battle pantsuit, but with SIG Sauer in hand, she pressed on through the spartan corridors of the Fordow facility. Heat signatures, she thought, they'd pinpointed heat signatures at this section of the facility. They didn't need to tell her what they all suspected. This was most likely where they were holding Bill.

Breaching the corridors was no easy task. Every corner had its dangers, and she had already gone through some near misses. The Revolutionary Guard were as fanatical as ever, but fortunately, her training, under the watchful guidance of her mentor, Madeleine Albright, saved her on many occasions.

A voice came in through her earpiece. " _Madame Secretary?"_ an unsure voice asked.

Hillary almost stopped running through the corridors. The voice was unexpected. "Who is this?" she asked. "Where's Philippe?"

" _Um, it's um."_

Another voice cut in. " _This is Nick Merrill,"_ Philippe said. " _He's my replacement."_

Hillary almost forgot. With her exit at State, that meant members of Hillaryland planned theirs as well, though they were sworn to secrecy of her covert activities. Philippe already told her of his plans for Beacon Global Strategies, a consulting company. That's the way it was, she thought still pressing on and keeping an eye out for any danger through the darkened corridors. The overhead lights were dimmer here, it seemed, and some already stopped working.

"Glad to have you aboard, Nick," she said. She wanted to say some words to Philippe about missing him, but he already knew. Of that she was sure.

In the earpiece, Nick cleared his throat. " _It's my honor, Madame Secretary."_

"Please," she said back. "Call me Hill—"

She slowed to a stop at the end of the corridor that trailed at both sides. It looked much like an office corridor with doors leading into unmarked rooms, if a bit dated like much of Iranian architecture.

Then, her ears pricked up as giggles . . . from women came from one of the rooms. She stepped tentatively towards the side.

"Oh, Mr. President," an accented woman's voice said. "That is a big _stick_ you're carrying." As soon as the voice said it, giggles came from inside the room.

Then, she heard someone. A deep, charming laugh. It could only come from one person.

Hillary gulped, and her face flushed hot. Her husband with other women. Ever since Monica, he swore he would never do it again, but the fear, it never really goes away. The fears with Bill . . .

Gripping her gun, she headed towards the voices. She had a mission to do.

The door opened, and Hillary pointed her gun at an unexpected sight. Inside the nondescript room, veiled faces, all crowded together, looked back at her in alarm as they were seated close together in chairs. Bill was at the head, pointing a meter stick at a wheeled chalkboard, an amateur map in chalk of the United States scrawled upon it.

Hillary didn't know what to expect, and unlike her, she dropped her guard. Any one of the female ninjas could have attacked her, but they didn't. They all merely gazed at one another. She tried to say something, but nothing came out. It felt like sand crawled up her throat preventing her to speak.

The silver haired president broke the silence with a charming laugh. "Hey Hillary," he said with a Southern drawl. "Just showing these young ladies about my hometown of Hope, Arkansas," he said, still pointing the meter stick up to the state of Arkansas in the middle of the crudely drawn map of America.

The shock finally wore off. She was expecting the worst: that he had strayed again like other times before. Try as she may, tears stung her eyes. "Oh, Bill," she said, heading towards her husband.

Bill embraced her, and soon, she was engulfed in his arms. He had always been stronger than her, contrary to their reputations. "Oh, Bill," she repeated.

"It's alright," Bill said, kissing the top of her head. "You're safe."

In his arms, she forgot about everything. Ever since the discovery of the imposter, there was like a force that pressed down on her that wouldn't go away. Now that he was safe, she could finally breathe again.

"You're safe," he repeated.

She would have stayed in his arms forever, but soldiers, Army Rangers in full battle gear, suddenly stormed into the chamber. To the screams of the veiled women, the soldiers, in desert fatigues and holding up M-16's, filed out one by one.

The female ninjas all stood up, even reaching in for their knives, but they were caught off guard. Gun barrels pointed at them, and they stood down, knowing the futility of fighting back.

They quickly encircled everyone in the room, careful to keep a keen eye on the veiled Iranian ninjas.

"Gentlemen," Bill said to the assembled soldiers with Hillary in his arms.

The squad leader of the Army Rangers spoke up. "Come with us, Mr. President," he said.

Bill bit his lower lip but acquiesced. Ever so slightly, he let go of Hillary.

The squad leader then turned to Hillary, "Madame Secretary," he said with a slight nod.

Bill finally let go of his embrace, and now standing beside him, she wiped her eyes and only nodded back at the squad leader.

At last, Bill left her side, leaving her alone once more. Fate can be cruel like that, she thought as her husband headed towards the soldiers.

As he went, the veiled women followed him with their eyes as though they too wished he wouldn't leave them.

Finally, securing their mission, several soldiers began to leave with the former president.

Her mission finally went to the forefront of her mind. "Where's Huma," she asked.

"Last reports had her at the control room, Madame Secretary," the squad leader said, holding his M-16 and preparing to leave.

She gripped her SIG Sauer anew. Time to end this, she thought.


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

Even as Javani raised his gun at Huma, she continued to look down at the computer console.

Come on, she thought again. Inside the Master Control Room of the Fordow facility, the bar on the computer screen still progressed painfully slow. Sixty percent it read as the blue bar continued on its slow path.

Hurry up will—and then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something. On the window glass that looked out onto the whirling centrifuges, an Iranian man, in Revolutionary Guard uniform, had his gun raised at her.

Her heart dropped, but instinctively, she acted. Quickly, she dropped down and kicked the wheeled chair over, which flung straight into Colonel Javani. "Aaagh!" he cried out as the chair rammed him.

Huma didn't have time to think. As Javani tried to shove the offending chair out of the way, she immediately lunged for him in an effort to disarm the colonel. Quickly, she took his arm and snapped it against her knee causing the gun to fall out of his hands and onto the floor.

Javani grimaced, not expecting the attack, but he recovered and shoved her away, his strength causing her to fall back to the floor and her head slamming against the ground.

The room spun out, the impact dazing her. Ohhhh, she thought. Instead of going after the errant pistol, however, Javani went after her.

"Die!" he cried out as he pounced on her, and then, placing his beefy hands around her neck. Huma was too dazed to fight back, but the next thing she knew, Javani's gripped at her neck and he squeezed.

His hands were like a lock around her neck, and almost instantly, she found herself struggling to breathe.

He gripped harder, putting more pressure, while squeezing his hands tighter around her neck. "Now you will die like the America you love."

Huma became more and more lightheaded. She couldn't take much more of this, she thought. She had to do something . . .

Somehow, she found the strength. Recalling her defensive training, she raised her lithe legs and began to wrap them around Javani's neck.

He noticed too late. Huma scissored her legs around his neck, and she too squeezed.

Javani's eyes bulged, finally realizing her countermove, but he somehow managed to squeeze even tighter. Huma fought for air even as she continued to squeeze with whatever strength she had left.

Gritting her teeth, she focused all her attention to maintaining her leg hold on Javani's neck.

It seemed an eternity, and with every passing moment, she thought she would pass out, but at last, Javani's grip weakened. Huma caught her breath, though she kept on squeezing.

Javani's face reddened as he struggled for breath. She couldn't show him mercy. It was kill or be killed . . .

With her scissored legs around his neck, she squeezed harder and harder until finally, her enemy met his end. His head slumped against her legs, but she squeezed again just in case.

His lifeless body did not move. Crying out, she released her leg grip and rolled to the side even as Javani's body collapsed to the floor.

Huma breathed out, and her emotions finally caught up to her. She wanted to cry. Killing a man, it never did get any easier.

She had to think of the mission, she reminded herself. Her conscience could wait.

Leaving Javani dead on the floor, she limped to the computer console. She still gasped for breath as she went up and stared down at the screen.

The blue bar reached the one hundred percent mark. The virus had finally been uploaded to the Iranian network, she knew.

Huma breathed a sigh of relief. She did it, they all did it. Beyond the protective glass, the centrifuges spun around faster and faster. The virus told the centrifuges to spin wildly out of control, destabilizing the enrichment process. With her mission complete, the Iranians wouldn't have enough material to create their tsunami bomb.

She pressed her hand to her earpiece. Time to tell the President the good news . . .

"Huma to base, Huma to—" Feedback screeched inside the earpiece making her reel from the sound. She hated it when that happened. "Huma to base," she continued after the feedback died down. "Huma to base. Mission accomplished. I repeat, Mission—"

Huma's body slammed violently first against the computer console and then to the floor.

Standing over her, Alessandra James glowered, a pipe in her hand. "Bitch," she said disgustedly as she cast her menacing shadow. On the floor, Huma lay on her side, her eyes closed.

She was unconscious.

•••

The visage of Hillary Clinton appeared on the circular window of the steel door. Her eyes scanned the chamber, and then, she kicked the door open, entering its confines, gun in hand.

She hadn't seen anybody inside the power generation area of the Fordow enrichment facility. With industrial machinery of pipes and tubes snaking in all directions, she crossed the central catwalk as turbine generators whirred in the background. The heat inside caused her to sweat even more, but she kept going.

Her footsteps clanged on the grating of the steel catwalk as she hurried through. She didn't know why, but she felt there was something wrong with Huma. She could feel it. I'm coming, Huma, she thought. I'm coming.

To her surprise, smoke suddenly appeared on the catwalk, quickly engulfing the steel walkway. The attack came so suddenly, all Hillary could do was cover her mouth, but it was already too late.

The smoke engulfed the entire area, and she began to cough and her eyes watered. Tear gas, she thought as she covered her mouth, but it wasn't enough. She had to get through, try to find a way.

Hillary ran as fast as she could. It was too much. Coughing hard, she finally fell on one knee even as she wheezed. She couldn't believe it. She was so close, only to fail now, it felt like Hillarycare all over again.

Hillary dropped the SIG Sauer, causing it to clang onto the catwalk, and she fell on all fours. As she hacked and coughed, a figure emerged from the smoke. Through the haze, a form became clearer and clearer until finally, a man wearing a gas mask stepped towards Hillary triumphantly.

She already knew who it was.

#2.

He strode towards her, kicked the gun away, sending it skittering on the catwalk, and promptly kicked her in the gut, his boot making its mark. Hillary cried out in pain even as already scarce air went out of her. She tasted the cold steel of the catwalk floor.

"How does it feel, Hillary?" #2's muffled voice scoffed as he stood over her. She tried to get up, but he kicked her again in the gut, which made her cry out once more. "To feel so powerless."

He peered down, seeing Hillary become weaker and weaker. "Now you know how we feel before the might of American hegemony!"

The smoke from the tear gas thinned now, but it had already had done its work. Above her, #2's gas-masked face, with its two oversized eye lenses, made it him seem more monstrous than he already he was. "We only, we only—"

"Don't you get it?!" #2 exploded as though somehow, the fact that Hillary was still as defiant as ever caused him to lose his temper. "Not everyone wants to be like you!" he sounded. "The West imposes its values on the rest of the world when we neither asked for it or welcomed it."

Hillary tried to get up on all fours on the steel grating but then fell back down. It felt as though she couldn't find the strength to lift up her body anymore.

"Your kind come in with your rights," #2 spat, his voice filled with derision and disgust. "Your gay rights, your religious rights, your . . . women's rights."

Upon hearing those words, she looked up again. His mocking words gave her strength. There was still fire inside of her. "Women's rights," she said laboriously. "are human rights,"

" _SHUT UP!"_ #2 screamed, kicking her again. Hillary winced in pain as once more she went down to the cold catwalk floor. "Don't you ever just _SHUT UP?!"_

She expected that attack however. She had hardened her abdominal muscles to partly deflect the blow, all to take this one chance. " _AAARRGHHHH!"_ she screamed her savage war cry and mustering the last of her strength, Hillary Rodham Clinton picked herself up and lunged at #2 as a way of catching him by surprise, throw him off balance, anything to turn the tide of the fight.

It didn't work.

#2 caught her by the wrist, halting her attack, and then, he turned her around and held her close to his gas masked face.

"Just like America," his muffled voice whispered menacingly as the last of the tear gas smoke dissipated around him. "Say one thing and do another."

He threw her down to the steel catwalk, and her body thudded against the grating until she rolled to a stop. Hillary breathed hard, all strength sapped.

"Ah yes," #2 said, finally noticing Hillary's SIG Sauer on the catwalk. He went over and snatched it from the steel floor. "What better way to kill you than with your own gun," he continued. The way he inspected the gun, it seemed as though, behind the gas mask, he held a wicked smile on his face.

Hillary tried to pick herself up. If she couldn't get out of this now, it would be the end of her. With both hands, she tried to heave herself up, but she couldn't. Her body once more thudded against the catwalk even as she whimpered at the pain that coursed throughout her body.

#2 pointed the muzzle of the gun at the prone Hillary on the catwalk grating. "Goodbye, Hillary," he said.

He pulled the trigger.

She awaited the deathblow, the searing heat passing through her skull, which was where the gun was pointed. Whatever happened, she'd led a good life. Her only regret was not bringing #2 to justice. Others would replace her, there always were.

She closed her eyes and waited for what seemed like an eternity. A second and then two. Still, there was nothing.

The trigger clicked again. "Huh?" #2 said, looking mystified at the SIG Sauer in his hand, wondering why the gun didn't fire.

Hillary made her move. This time, she went after the gun. In a simultaneous move, she grabbed his wrist with one hand and with her other hand wrenched the gun away from him. Quickly, she turned the gun around and fired the SIG Sauer straight at the terrorist.

This time, it fired. The bullet hit its mark, and #2 immediately went down to the catwalk floor. His body lay still on the grating as she continued to point the gun at the now decommissioned terrorist.

Hillary caught her breath. Finally, it was the end, she thought. Her SIG Sauer, she told herself, it had smart-gun technology. Jake mentioned back at the Waldorf that only she could fire the gun since the weapon only responded to her handprints. Score one for gun safety, she thought, making a mental note to push for increased gun safety legislation if . . . and when she ran for—

A steel pipe suddenly slammed against the back of her skull, and Hillary fell forward straight to the catwalk floor once more. The double blow dazed her, and as piercing pain rang in her head as well as feeling wet, matted blood on her hair, the room spun about.

Behind her, Alessandra James, brandishing a steel pipe, towered over her. "You BITCH!" she cried out derisively. "Why do you always have to ruin everything?!"

As Hillary groaned on the grating of the catwalk floor, clutching the back of her bloodied head, tears streamed down Alessandra's face, slightly smudging her makeup. "You killed him," she said, giving one glance back at the still form of #2 behind her. "I'll avenge you, my love," she said. Then, she turned back to her with a menacing glare. "I'll do what your enemies couldn't do, Hillary," she continued. "End your political career!"

Hillary tried to crawl forwards, trying to get away from her new attacker, but Alessandra followed closely behind. She scraped the steel pipe along the railing, causing a screeching sound even as Hillary continued to try to get away. The blood, which began as a small gash, now poured from her wound, staining Hillary's blonde hair.

Alessandra raised the steel pipe high. " _DIE, HILLARY!"_

Hillary could only look away and wait for the strike. She conjured every last bit of her training on how to handle a blow, and quickly tensed her body. True, she didn't know how much more her body could take especially since she was already a Baby Boomer, but she had to. What choice did she have?

The blow never came.

A gunshot rang out, and Hillary looked up, seeing Alessandra with a look of shock on her face. Blood poured from her lips, and then, the steel pipe fell from her hand, clanging to the catwalk. At last, the end of Alessandra came. She first dropped to her knees and then, her body crumpled to the floor.

Hillary could only stare ahead at the sudden turn of events. The questions would have caught up to her except her questions were already being answered.

#2, now without a gas mask, revealing his handsome face, stepped unsteadily over Alessandra's dead body as he held a gun in his hand. He grasped at his side.

"Only I . . . may kill you," he said with difficulty, blood running down the side of his mouth.

He pointed the gun straight at her. "No . . . more games." This time, Hillary thought, there was no escaping. In this life, there can be only so much luck. She closed her eyes. Bill and Chelsea, she thought. She wanted her last thoughts to be about them.

Instead of a shot however, she found herself getting picked up, a hand put over her mouth and a gun pointed at her head. Using her as a human shield, #2 carefully put her between himself and his new enemies.

Hillary barely had time to comprehend, but the scene before her answered her questions. Soldiers had stormed into the end platform area, and their M-16's pointed straight at him or more precisely, them.

Huma stood with the other soldiers, gun in hand. Upon seeing her boss as a hostage, she looked crestfallen.

"One move, and she's dead," #2 warned, and once more, he pressed his gun against her temple.

The soldiers didn't budge, only pointing their semi-automatic weapons at them. Their eyes wandered over to Huma, who took a deep breath.

Hillary wanted to tell them to shoot #2 and not let him use her as a human shield, but even as she tried to squirm away, he tightened his grip. He was too strong.

Huma gulped, and then, with eyes drawn down, she nodded at the men, who slowly drew down their weapons.

With his hand over Hillary's mouth, #2 took his chance at escape, and prodding her along, he forced her to go with him, the soldiers and Huma reluctantly letting them through.


	21. Chapter 21

**CHAPTER TWENTY ONE**

#2 led Hillary through the corridors and stairways of the Fordow facility. She tried to fight back, find some sort of opening, but he was too strong for her, his gun menacingly pressed close to her temple.

"There's still time," Hillary urged him as they went up another flight of stairs. Sweat collected on her forehead whether it be from the circumstances or the heat itself, she didn't know. "You can come in peacefully."

#2 only scoffed. "Don't play the good girl act with me," he said. "Besides . . ." They made it to the landing at the top of the stairs, and then, he gazed expectantly down the long, dank corridor. "I have a surprise for you."

Hillary didn't like the sound of that. "Even if you kill me, you won't get away," she said as he continued to drag her through the corridor. "Barack will see to that."

"On the contrary, Hillary," he said, making their way to a steel door. A glass window held a hint of what was inside, but it was too murky to see anything. "I'm always one step ahead."

He kicked the door open, and inside was some sort of . . . heliport. Dim lighting peered down from the high ceilings with exposed steel braces supporting the roof, and on the floor was a landing area. White markings indicated the landing spots except it wasn't a helicopter that occupied it. Instead, a set of Predator drones rested on their landing spots, but a take-off point was nowhere to be seen.

Keeping his grip, he cajoled Hillary towards a central drone, bigger than the rest. "Modified Predator drones," #2 said, almost triumphantly. "All those drones you send after us, well . . ." He forced her onto the Predator drone with him close behind and situated both of his feet on top, close to the wings. "Some of them join our side with a little bit of tinkering of course."

With the gun pressed against her temple, #2 took out a device and pressed a button. On command, the rooftop hinged open and slowly revealed the night sky outside.

"Best hold on, Hillary," he said. Clamps suddenly rose up from the top of the drone and then fastened around #2's feet, keeping him secure on the drone and turning it into his own glider. "I'll take you on a magic carpet ride."

Rockets flared underneath, lifting the drone up, and with the rear propeller starting up, it whisked them away to the darkness of the Iranian sky.

•••

"Where did they go?" President Obama asked. The President and the entire National Security Council was at the Situation Room in the basement of the White House. National Security Advisor Susan Rice along with Vice President Biden, Secretary of Defense Panetta, and the rest of the NSC stared up at the video screen where various video feeds of the assault on Fordow commenced. The viewer switched constantly from soldiers storming a corridor to some securing an area. On another video feed, an explosion blew open a door, part of a controlled explosion by a team of soldiers, who ran into the room.

A few of the NSC staff sat on the leather backed chairs by the cherry conference table that occupied the center of the Situation Room, but the President himself was close to the video screen towering over Rice.

"Detecting unidentified aircraft out of Fordow," a voice said on the audio feed. The Situation Room itself was connected on a secure line to operators in Langley, the Pentagon, and Hillaryland Ops at State.

"What?" Obama said, concerned. The same look of concern marked Susan Rice's face. He turned around to his NSC staff who, staring at their tablets, were also at a loss.

"Find out what that—"

"Sir," the operator at the audio feed said. "Huma is on the line. Says it's urgent."

Obama furrowed his brow again. If it's not one thing, it's another. "Patch her through."

A moment passed, but Huma's voice came through loud and clear. "Mr. President," she said, gasping. "#2 has left Fordow on a modified drone." Obama was about to say to shoot it down, but she continued on. "Mrs. Clinton's with him."

Obama set his jaw as he heard the news, but he had to keep his cool. He's always reminded himself to never show too much emotion or passion, sometimes to his detriment, but to hear that Hillary was in danger . . .

"Mr. President?"

Obama broke out of his reverie. It was Susan Rice who spoke his name. "What do you propose?"

The entire Situation Room looked at him for the next course of action. Sometimes, the burden of the presidency proved too much even for him.

"Um," he said, trying to collect his thoughts, Hillary was still out there. She could be dead for all he knew. "We should, um," he stammered. "Can we take control of the drone?" He remembered their drones had fail-safes to prevent an enemy from taking control of their technology.

General Dempsey, now standing from his chair behind the cherry table, shook his head. "We tried that already. #2's the only one in control."

Obama gazed down, his lips pressed together in frustration. Every second meant #2 was getting further and further away.

"Drones on standby," Dempsey added.

He knew what the General was asking. They could shoot him out of the sky, but if Hillary was with him . . .

"Mr. President," General Dempsey pressed, silently saying that every second mattered.

He had no choice, Obama thought. He thought he'd already asked for Hillary's forgiveness before, now he was asking for it again. I'm sorry, he thought silently as though Hillary could hear him half a world away.

He gazed at everyone present in the Situation Room, each one with a grave face, and steeled his resolve. "Send the drones," Obama ordered.

•••

The stars of Iran shone down on Hillary as #2 held her atop the drone that streaked above the barren land. The lights from the Fordow facility gave off the dimmest light while the lights of the modified drone beamed silently ahead.

"Stop struggling," #2 ordered. Unlike him, whose feet were fastened securely on top of the drone by metallic clasps, Hillary had no such safety mechanisms. He held her in a headlock with a Makarov pistol still pointed at her forehead, but still she remained defiant.

Hillary tried to squirm out ever so slightly. Maybe she could find a way to bring them both down, she thought even as the wind blew against her, no doubt her hair adding as a further irritant to #2. "You'll never get away."

"You're really tempting me," #2 said exasperated, waving the Makarov pistol menacingly.

She wanted to pivot and spit at him, but she was finding that difficult.

Two sets of wingtip lights appeared from behind their modified drone, drawing both of their attention. Beside her, she could feel #2 draw back his breath.

In the twilight sky, two Predators were in hot pursuit . . . and gaining fast. As if in retaliation, #2's modified Predator drone flew a little bit faster.

"Looks like your friends are here," #2 said sardonically.

Hillary knew it as well. Barack must have sent the drones to take care of this problem, she thought. She loosened a bit and didn't fight as hard as before knowing what was going to happen. She would have done the same if she were in his position: sacrifice her to get at one of the world's top terrorists. Still, she couldn't quite believe this would truly be the end. Well, she decided. If this was the end, she may as well enjoy the ride . . .

"What's the matter, #2?" Hillary taunted. "Underestimate America's resolve once more?!"

Focusing on steering the drone ahead, he growled silently beside her, while Hillary peered back waiting for the Hellfire missile that was to come. Bring it! she said aloud to herself, and paradoxically, she actually wished for the strike.

As her blonde hair whipped against the wind, her determined grimace faded, however.

That's odd, she thought.

The Predator drone behind them continued on its trajectory. It should have fired by now, it had a clear shot at them. Was Barack hesitating?

Then, she noticed something. There was _another_ Predator drone, but this time, it was directly below them. Its wingtip lights glinted in the night, also refraining from firing its payload.

#2 tightened his headlock and forced her to turn back. She didn't resist him, however, even if just to tweak her captor. Dark shapes cast menacing shadows on the parched ground below.

Why wasn't Barack firing? she asked herself. It should have been done by now, the end, the final strike, unless . . .

Her eyes gazed down at the Predator drone below, still flying on its path. They're trying to tell me something, but what?

She tried to wrack her famously Machiavellian brain. If they're not firing, then . . .

She shifted atop the drone, and as she tried to stabilize her footing, the answer came to her. They want her to land on the drone, she thought, feeling a gush of excitement for figuring it out. It was the only correct answer. Why else hadn't they fired?

A third Predator joined the chase, linking its flight path with the first drone behind them. That cemented her thought process even more. They're waiting for her to get out of the way at which point, they will then fire.

Once more, she gazed down at the drone below them. It's going to be quite the drop just like her approval ratings at times, she thought.

She had to try, though.

#2 fastened his hold around her neck as he directed the drone to veer in an attempt to shake off the other drones' pursuit. He's not going to let go easily, but he also won't fire his pistol. She's the only human shield he's got, that meant she could surprise him—

She stopped thinking about it. Knowing one of her faults was overthinking things, she simply acted. A quick elbow jabbed against #2's abdomen. Caught by surprise, he cried out, and upon loosening his hold on her, she tilted forward and dropped straight down to the Iranian sands.

Down, down she fell, the crisp wind whipping against her . . .

A moment later, a Predator drone flew in the sky, but down below, Hillary dangled in mid-air, holding onto the cable. She had fired her grappling hook from the sleeves of her battle pantsuit just in time.

Talk about who's up and who's down, she thought, her heart rate returning to normal.

As she dangled, #2 appeared behind, his drone heading straight for her.

Uh oh, she thought. She knew the drone she was holding onto was controlled by personnel inside a ground control station somewhere, but #2 apparently had full control of his.

Fortunately, she thought. He won't fire. He'll be as good as dead if she was gone—

A hellfire missile fired from #2's drone. Rocket fire trailing behind, it zoomed straight for her. The drone she held onto veered sharply to the right, whipping her violently, but somehow, she still managed to hold on.

It didn't work. The Hellfire missile with its heat-seeking sensors was not fooled. It veered as well and headed straight for impact.

Hillary felt a choke on her throat as the missile neared closer and closer. Any moment, it will make contact—

Another drone, this time a Reaper, another class of UAV, larger than the Predator, suddenly flew up and intercepted the missile just in time. For a moment, the explosion lit up the night sky while an ear deafening blast filled the landscape. Hillary tried to cover one of her ears with her free hand, but still, the ringing sounded in her ear from the explosion.

Still dangling, the drone continued to flee from the scene. As the ringing subsided, another drone appeared just below. The slick drone sped slightly and caught up with them. Looks like another ride, she thought.

She let go and dropped once more, ultimately landing on the drone. Carefully, she rose up and balanced herself on top of the drone, where her low-heeled pumps magnetically clamped onto the metal. Oh yeah, I forgot about that, she thought, remembering the enhancements Jake put on her pantsuit as the Reaper continued to fly to what she presumed was safety. Guess she found a use for her magnetic pumps after all.

Behind her, #2 cut through the explosion's smoke and gave chase one more time. He doesn't give up does he? she thought.

They now entered a cavernous area with the jagged edges of cliffs posing a major danger to their flight paths. It was darker as well, the lights of the Fordow facility and grounds vanishing behind them.

#2 was undeterred and continued to vengefully follow them into this new arena. She wished she could control her own drone, like he could, but nevertheless, it avoided the cliff faces at least for now.

Other drones apparently pursued #2 even as he was pursuing her. One of the drones, beside #2's drone, tried to kamikaze straight onto his, but he veered away at the last moment, causing it to crash into a cliff face, igniting it into a ball of flame.

More determined than ever, he crouched as though pressing his own drone to go faster.

Hillary's drone made a sharp turn to avoid an oncoming cliff face, and slightly dizzy, she tried to center herself. She turned back again. Behind her, #2's drone was nowhere to be seen.

Hmmm, she thought as her drone sped in between two cliff faces. Maybe they lost him. It would be her good luck if that was so . . .

Heading directly towards her in a higher altitude, #2 sped on his drone. A vindictive grin spread on his face.

Damn, she thought.

The drone shifted rapidly downward as though directly targeting her—

He jumped, and as her eyes widened, he spread his arms to grasp at her. Making his landing, he held onto Hillary's lapels even as she tried to push him off of her drone, which continued to speed dangerously amongst the cliff faces.

"You're going to kill us both," Hillary cried out, struggling with him.

"If I die, you die, Hillary!" he said back, almost fanatically. His strength overpowered hers, and soon, he was beginning to hold her once more in his grip.

He's too strong for her, she knew, in a contest of strength, she was bound to lose. Grabbing onto her shoulders, he began to laugh maniacally as though the full moon above maddened him. Ahead, the drone sped straight for the cliff face.

She now knew what to do. Left or right, she couldn't win. There was a third way . . .

With fire in her eyes, she gazed at the increasingly maddened #2.

"You first," she said.

She gave a head-butt to his face, which forced his head back. Blood spurted from his nose, and his grip loosened on her.

The magnetic low-heeled pumps unsealed against the metal, and then, with arms spread wide, she let herself drop. Recovering, #2 stared aghast at Hillary falling away from him.

The drone crashed into the cliff face, engulfing the aerial vehicle and #2 himself into a ball of flame. The sound rocked the area even as debris and shrapnel flew up everywhere.

Hillary saw it all, and while she felt guilty about it, she had the slightest satisfaction at #2's demise.

But not her own.

She continued to drop straight down, the ground coming fast, almost too fast.

She shouldn't have worried. Just when she started to think it was the end, a drone swooped in at first below and then flying above her. The battle pantsuit's grappling hook fired and then clasped onto the drone. Her body swung wildly, but she was grateful. As she dangled, holding onto the cable that latched onto her aerial rescuer, they sped away, she liked to think, back to America, back to home.


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER TWENTY TWO**

 _HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING_ _  
_ _WASHINGTON, DC_ _  
_ _UNITED STATES OF AMERICA_ _  
_ _JANUARY 23, 2013_

The scowling faces of the Senators peered down on Hillary as she sat alone at a desk, facing up at their aged faces. The Senators all sat on a raised mahogany paneled tribunal desk. Chairman Menendez looked nervous as the Republican Senators to his right continued their barrage of questions hoping to score political points. Senator Rubio, the young Cuban American Senator from Florida, already had his turn as did Sen. McCain, the aged Senator from Arizona.

Hillary had sighed more than once. It was only morning, but it was already shaping up to be a lonely day. The committee chamber at the Hart Senate Office Building in Capitol Hill was packed with spectators filling the gallery and cameramen seated on the floor ready to snap pictures at a moment's notice. In the gallery, reporters carefully took notes on their laptops while up on the raised tribunal desk, aides to the various Senators sat behind their respective bosses. Her own aides were seated in the front row of the gallery close to her. Huma herself sat rigidly, no doubt wishing she could defend her boss from their withering attacks.

Today was the scheduled hearings on Benghazi, and a round of inane questions from Sen. Paul from Kentucky had just concluded. The strike on Fordow was a success, but none of the Senators knew that, the operation having remained confidential.

"People have accused Ambassador Rice and the Administration of misleading Americans," she tried to explain patiently, wearing a green pantsuit as well as thick heavy rim Fresnel prism glasses as a result of the injuries she suffered in Whitehaven. "I can say trying to be in the middle of this and understanding what was going on, nothing could be further from the truth."

She took a deep breath. Fools, such fools, she thought. If she could only tell them what was really going on, but such was her burden.

"Was information developing?" she continued. "Was the information fluid? Would we reach conclusions later," she said, gesturing to the right, "that weren't reached initially, and I appreciate the—"

"But, Madame Secretary," Sen. Ron Johnson, the Senator from Wisconsin, thundered accusingly. "Do you disagree with me that a simple phone call to those evacuees to determine what happened would have ascertained immediately that there was no protest?" He looked down at her incredulously. "I mean that was, that was a piece of information that could have been easily, _easily_ obtained. Within, within hours—"

"But, Senator," Hillary said back wearily as though dealing with an errant schoolchild. Her patience had been tried many times during this witch hunt, but she had kept her composure, at least for now.

"If not days," Sen. Johnson finished.

"Senator, I—you know," Hillary said back. She took a moment to collect her thoughts. "When you're in these positions, the last thing you want to do is interfere with any other process going for—"

"I realize, I realize," Sen. Johnson said, raising his voice.

"Going on, number one," she retorted, finishing her point. She formed her fingers to form the number two as she said, "Number two—"

"I realize that's a good excuse—"

"Well no, that's a fact." Hillary shot back. "Number two, I recommend highly you read both what the ARP said about it and the classified ARP because even _today,"_ she said with emphasis, "there are questions being raised."

"Now," she continued. How much longer is this? she thought. God, how much longer? "We have no doubt they were terrorists, they were militants, they attacked us, they killed our people, but what was going on, and why they were doing what they were doing—"

"No no no," Sen. Johnson fumed. "Again, we were misled that there were supposedly protests and then an assault sprang out of that, and that was easily ascertained that was _not_ a fact."

"But, but you know—" Hillary said, her patience fraying.

"And the American people could have known that within days. And they didn't know that."

"With all due respect," Hillary said aloud, her anger now boiling over. "The fact is, we have four dead Americans," she said gesturing incessantly with both hands. "Was it because of a protest?" she said, waving irritatedly to the side. "Or was it because of guys who decided to go out for a walk one night and decided to go kill some Americans?"

She just couldn't take it anymore. "What difference, at this point, does it make?" she asked. "It is our job to figure out what happened and prevent it from ever happening again, Senator . . ."

The Senate hearing soon ended, but the day wasn't over. The House Foreign Affairs committee wanted to grill her too, and in the afternoon, with the help of Huma, they trudged over to the Rayburn Office Building across Capitol Hill for the House's chance to exact their pound of flesh. It was sometimes hard for her to remember, they saw her as a potential White House candidate rather than the DSS agent she really was. "Perception was reality" is an adage in Washington for a reason. God how she hated this town . . . and the people within it.

After taking group selfies with the crowd in the Foreign Affairs committee chamber, a more office-like environment compared to the Senate's version, Huma and her security detail led a path for her to a waiting black Cadillac DTS.

Protesters gathered outside waving signs. Both her fans and her detractors, which she counted the press in that, gathered outside as she headed to the vehicle. Cameras snapped while the more vocal of the protestors shouted epithets at her. " _Tell us the truth!"_ one shouted. One sign read "Butcher of Benghazi" scrawled with red marker simulating blood.

The DTS' rear seat door opened, but before she could step in, Huma reached over and whispered into her ear. "Trouble in Mali," she said quietly.

Hillary was about to say something, but Huma continued. "But I can handle this one."

She smiled slightly at her protégé and then, nodded. Huma got the message and elegantly stepped away even as Hillary stepped into the backseat, the door finally shutting out the outside world.

"You did a good job there, Hillary."

Bill was inside the vehicle with her. She couldn't help but smile back at him. "You think so?"

The former President bit his lower lip seductively and looked away for a moment. "You may be a secret agent, but you'll always be just Hillary to me."

"Oh, Bill," she said, slightly blushing as the car pulled away. Then, she gave him a soft kiss.

Bill only smiled slightly at the note of affection, and returning back to her side, she looked out the window. Sign wielding protesters had lined the sidewalks with security keeping them at bay. They continued to wave their protest signs, one prominently saying "Hillary is a Killery!" while others only screamed and booed at the departing black sedan.

They don't know, she thought sadly, about what really happened. Sometimes, she wished she could tell the American people. Maybe it's better that way. A spy's life, she mused as she looked out the window, the protesters passing from view. It's considered a success when the public doesn't know.

"I got a present for you."

Bill's words roused her out of her thoughts, and she looked over to him, not quite sure if she heard right.

He reached down on his side of the Cadillac, giving a wily look as he did so. She could only look back at him, her head slightly askew. She knew he was planning something when he gave her that look.

A moment later, he produced in his hand, a wrapped present. It was monochrome blue with a bow of the same blue tied around the present, suggesting this wasn't for any special occasion.

He handed it to her, and warily, she took it in her hand. Giving him one last look, she smiled slightly and then carefully, unwrapped the present . . .

Inside the box was . . . a bumper sticker. She picked it up, and it read, "Hillary 2016" in the same graphics as her Hillary 2008 campaign used.

She exhaled and shook her head, reproachful and bemused at the same time. "Bill," she said, a bit scandalized. Still, she couldn't hide her smile.

"Thought you might like it," Bill said to her, reveling in her embarrassment.

She put the Hillary 2016 bumper sticker back in the box. She knew Bill was encouraging her to make a decision, but in truth, even she didn't know if she was ready for Hillary. "I told you," she said. "I'm not ready to make a decision yet."

"Well, don't say I didn't try," he said chuckling.

She laughed quietly along with him, and as the black DTS traveled to Embassy Row, she laid her head on Bill's shoulder, her hand around his. The future may be in the air with the fate of the free world in the balance, but with Bill by her side, she had all the time in the world.

The windows drew down, and then, a certain hand tossed the Hillary 2016 bumper sticker out, where it fluttered in the air past the traveling sedan.

All the time in the world.


End file.
